o>^lf 


ISABEL  STIRLING 


ISABEL  STIRLING 


BY 

EVELYN  SCHUYLER  SCHAEFFER 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1920 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  October,  1920 


ISABEL  STIRLING 


445808 


ISABEL  STIRLING 

PART   ONE 


At  the  age  of  four,  Isabel  was  consumed  by  a  desire  to 
go  to  church  and  hear  "preaching."  What  preaching 
might  be,  she  could  not  imagine.  She  only  knew  that 
every  Sunday  her  grandmother  and  her  father  put  on 
their  best  clothes  and  went  out  of  the  front  door,  leaving 
her  to  a  dull  morning  with  Norah.  For  her  dolls  and  all 
her  other  playthings  were  put  away,  owing  to  a  tiresome 
rule  made  by  a  great  person  called  God.  Sunday  was 
God's  day,  she  was  told.  He  was  a  person  whom  she 
could  not  see,  although  she  was  taught  to  talk  to  Him 
when  she  went  to  bed,  and  to  listen  when  Father  talked 
to  Him  in  the  morning  and  before  each  meal.  He  could 
see  her,  it  seemed,  at  all  times,  and  very  especially  when 
she  was  naughty.  In  fact,  there  was  no  getting  away 
from  Him.  That  preaching  had  something  to  do  with 
Him,  she  gathered,  for  they  said  they  went  to  His  house. 
In  that  case,  they  probably  saw  Him.  Her  heart  beat 
faster  at  the  idea,  but  she  was  more  excited  than  fright- 
ened, for  she  could  always  hold  fast  to  Grandma's  hand. 
Grandma  had  told  her  about  beautiful  angels,  too,  and 
they  would  probably  be  there.  Moreover,  this  child  was 
so  constituted  that,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  her 
life,  if  there  were  anything  to  see,  she  wanted  to  see  it, 
and  if  there  were  anything  unusual  to  do,  she  wanted  to 
do  it. 

She  had  often  begged  to  be  taken  with  them  to  church, 

1 


2  Isabel  Stirling 

and  Father,  who  never  took  her  part,  had  actually  said, 
on  the  occasion  when  he  happened  to  hear  her,  that  she 
ought  to  go;  but  Grandma  had  said,  "Not  yet,  William." 
There  had  been  a  little  more  talk  about  it  and  Grandma 
had  said,  "Wait  until  she  is  five,  at  any  rate ;"  and  Father 
had  not  said  anything  more. 

Isabel  now  looked  forward  to  her  birthday.  Hitherto 
she  had  been  too  young  to  notice  that  Father  stayed  in 
his  study  all  that  day,  and  she  did  not  remember  that 
Grandma  had  kept  her  particularly  quiet.  But  Jessie, 
next  door,  had  a  party  and  presents  on  birthdays  and 
last  year,  when  she  had  asked  why  she  too  did  not  have 
such  things,  Grandma  had  hugged  her  tight  without  say- 
ing anything,  and  then  had  gone  down  to  the  village  and 
bought  her  a  doll.  This  year  there  was  to  be  something 
better  than  a  doll  or  a  party. 

On  the  Sunday  morning  after  the  fifth  birthday  she 
was  dressed  in  all  the  bravery  of  her  best  clothes,  topped 
by  her  adored  little  pink  satin  bonnet,  out  of  which,  be- 
tween golden-brown  curls,  peered  a  pair  of  very  serious 
dark-fringed  gray  eyes. 

"You'll  remember,"  admonished  Grandma,  "that  you 
must  sit  perfectly  still  and  not  squirm  around  or  make  a 
sound." 

She  promised  readily  and  walked  sedately  by  Grand- 
ma's side,  down  the  hill  and  along  the  village  street  and 
up  the  long  flight  of  wooden  steps  which  led  to  the  door 
of  the  church.  Her  breath  came  quickly  as  they  entered. 
Heaven  knows  what  strange  scene  of  enchantment  she 
expected  to  behold.  She  might  well  have  been  disap- 
pointed, for  that  old,  white-painted  Presbyterian  church 
was  a  bare  enough  place.  No  stained  glass  met  her  eager 
gaze,  only  enormous,  many-paned  windows  with  green, 
shuttered  blinds,  plain  white  walls,  severe-looking  pews, 
each  with  its  door  which  fastened  with  a  button  and  its 
long,  slanting  shelf  in  front,  with  a  narrower  shelf  un- 
derneath. On  the  seats  were  thin  cushions  covered  with 
faded  red  baize  and  there  was  a  wooden  footstool  run- 
ning the  whole  length  of  the  pew.    Isabel  liked  the  pews 


Isabel  Stirling  3 

and  the  under  shelf,  with  its  fascinating  look  of  secrecy, 
but  the  saving  touch  was  in  the  purple  velvet  curtains 
behind  the  pulpit.  They  hung  in  long,  straight  folds  and 
were  decorated  with  heavy  cords  and  tassels.  Back  in 
her  baby  soul  was  something  which  responded  to  the 
mystery  of  those  purple  velvet  folds.  Red  curtains  would 
have  impressed  her  much  less.  She  pictured  to  herself 
vast  and  dim  recesses  beyond  and  knew  that  Something 
was  there — probably  God  and  the  angels.  At  the  proper 
times  those  cords  would  draw  the  curtains  back  and  let 
them  all  come  through.  Then  there  would  be  "preach- 
ing." Years  after  that,  even  when  she  knew  quite  well 
that  those  purple  curtains  only  covered  a  blank  white 
wall,  Isabel  could  not  divest  herself  of  the  idea  that  there 
really  were  mysterious  depths  beyond — that  the  white 
wall  would  open  if  one  only  knew  the  magic  word. 

Presently  the  organ  began  to  play  and,  cautiously  turn- 
ing her  head,  she  saw  the  high  gallery  at  the  other  end 
of  the  church.  More  mystery  was  there,  for  the  gallery 
also  had  curtains,  small  ones.  It  looked  inaccessible,  like 
an  impossibly  big  mantelpiece,  yet  there  were  people  up 
there,  for  heads  appeared  from  time  to  time  above  the 
curtains.  The  music  of  the  organ  was  enchanting,  al- 
though a  little  terrifying.  There  were  moments  when 
it  sent  a  quiver  through  her  and  made  a  lump  in  her 
throat.  She  got  hold  of  Grandma's  hand  and  squeezed 
it  tight.  Then  a  whole  row  of  heads  appeared  above 
the  curtain  and  sang.  Grandma  did  not  prevent  her  turn- 
ing around  to  look  at  them  and  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  knew  some  of  them,  for  there  surely  was  Miss  Emma, 
with  her  wavy  red  hair,  and  fat  Mr.  Anderson,  with  his 
beard  sticking  out  straight.  When  they  stopped  singing 
all  the  heads  dropped  down  out  of  sight.  Then  Father 
— yes,  it  certainly  was  Father,  and  she  had  just  begun  to 
wonder  what  had  become  of  him — Father  stood  up  in 
front  of  the  purple  curtains  and  talked.  This  was  ex- 
citing at  first,  but  soon  grew  tiresome,  for  it  went  on  for 
such  a  long,  long  time.  Sometimes,  to  be  sure,  he  stopped 
and  the  music  began  again,  but  most  of  the  time  it  was 


4  Isabel  Stirling 

just  Father,  talking  grown-up  talk  that  she  couldn't  even 
try  to  understand.  When,  oh,  when  would  he  stop  and 
pull  the  cords  and  let  God  and  the  angels  come  through  ? 
Isabel  hardly  dared  look  at  the  gallery  again  lest  she 
should  miss  something. 

And  then,  after  all,  there  was  nothing  at  all!  More 
singing,  more  talking,  and  then  the  people  began  to  go 
out  of  the  church.  She  turned  her  head  and  looked  up 
once  more  and  had  a  glimpse  of  the  singers  in  profile, 
a  row  of  bodiless  heads  gliding  away  to  some  mysterious 
exit.  Sadly  she  allowed  Grandma  to  lead  her  out.  Many 
ladies  stopped  and  spoke  to  her.  All  through  her  child- 
hood it  seemed  to  Isabel  that  ladies  were  stopping  her  to 
say  unnecessary  things.  She  tugged  at  Grandma's  hand 
to  hurry  her  up.  As  for  her  father,  he  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen. 

"You  behaved  very  nicely,"  said  Grandma,  when  they 
had  finally  left  all  the  ladies  behind  and  were  walking 
up  the  hill  together. 

"But  where  was  the  preaching?"  asked  Isabel. 

"Why,  your  father  did  preach,"  replied  Grandma. 
"You  heard  him." 

"No,  he  just  stood  up  and  talked,"  persisted  Isabel. 

"But  that  was  preaching,"  said  Grandma.  "He  told 
them  about  God,  and  what  they  should  do  to  please  Him." 

"And  is  that  all  that  preaching  is?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Grandma.    "He  preached  a  sermon." 

Isabel  was  shy  about  telling  of  her  disappointment  and 
walked  soberly  home,  holding  Grandma's  hand.  It  was 
always  a  comfort  to  hold  that  hand. 

When  the  pink  bonnet  was  restored  to  its  box  and  the 
best  frock  was  exchanged  for  an  every-day  one,  Isabel 
cast  about  for  something  to  do  in  the  interval  before 
dinner.  She  was  very  hungry  and  wished  that  Norah 
would  hurry  up.  The  sitting-room  was  bare  and  unhome- 
like  in  its  Sunday  aspect,  with  the  toys  all  put  away  in 
the  closet.  The  child  knelt  on  a  chair  by  the  window 
and  gazed  out  at  the  trees  with  their  red  and  yellow 


Isabel  Stirling  5 

leaves.  Now  and  then  a  leaf  detached  itself  from  its 
branch  and  floated  in  a  leisurely  way  through  the  air. 
The  garden  beds  were  almost  covered  with  the  leaves 
which  had  fallen,  and  perhaps  after  dinner,  when  Father 
was  in  his  study  (which  happened  to  be  on  the  other 
side  of  the  house)  Grandma  would  let  her  go  out  and 
play  about  among  them.  She  looked  across  the  garden 
to  the  road,  and  across  the  road  to  the  creek  in  its  ravine, 
and  to  the  hills  beyond — green,  tree-dotted  hills,  sloping 
gently  upward  to  meet  the  sky.  Then,  with  a  sudden 
recollection  of  the  heads  in  the  gallery,  an  idea  came  to 
her  and  Sunday  rules  went  clean  out  of  her  head.  Grand- 
ma was  upstairs  and  there  was  no  one  to  warn  her,  so 
she"  got  down  from  her  chair  and  ran  to  the  closet  and 
dragged  out  her  big  box  of  blocks.  She  would  build 
that  church  mantelpiece  and  set  up  a  row  of  dolls  behind 
it.  Sitting  flat  on  the  floor,  head  bent  over  so  that  her 
jcurls  covered  her  intent  face,  she  was  putting  the  last 
touch  on  the  architectural  structure  when  a  terrible  voice 
sounded  over  her  head.    Father  had  come  into  the  room. 

"Isabel !"  said  the  voice. 

She  looked  up,  trembling,  the  picture  of  guilt. 

"You  know  you  are  doing  what  you  have  been  told  not 
to  do." 

She  was  too  frightened  even  to  plead  that  she  had 
forgotten. 

"You  know  what  happens  to  you  when  you  disobey. 
Come  with  me !" 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  she  gave  him  her  little  cold 
one  and  was  led  into  the  unused  room  off  his  study — a 
room  always  darkened  and  cold  and  associated  only  with 
punishments.  She  wept  bitterly,  but  as  much  from  anger 
and  a  sense  of  injustice  as  from  the  pain  of  punishment. 

"Stop  crying !"  he  ordered,  as  he  left  her  alone  in  the 
room,  and  she  tried  to  stifle  her  sobs. 

Presently  the  dinner-bell  rang  and  he  came  back  and 
led  her  into  the  dining-room  and  lifted  her  to  her  chair. 
He  carved  the  meat,  helped  his  mother  and  put  a  smaller 


6  Isabel  Stirling 

portion  on  a  plate  and,  cutting  it  up  with  the  carving- 
knife,  placed  it  before  the  child.  Grandma  hastened  to 
add  the  mashed  potato  and  gravy  and  began  to  ask  Father 
questions  about  something  or  other,  but  she  could  not 
keep  him  from  seeing  that  Isabel's  food  remained  un- 
touched. 

"Eat  your  dinner !"  he  commanded. 

"I  don't  want  any  dinner,"  quavered  Isabel. 

"Eat  your  dinner !" 

She  stuck  her  fork  into  a  piece  of  meat  and  lifted  it 
to  her  mouth.  As  her  father  turned  his  head  away  she 
looked  at  him  with  hatred  in  her  glance. 

"Isabel,"  said  Grandma,  "I  left  my  handkerchief  up- 
stairs. Won't  you  go  up  and  look  in  my  top  drawer 
and  get  me  a  clean  one?" 

As  she  went  upstairs  Isabel  heard  Grandma  talking  to 
Father.  She  took  as  long  as  she  could  to  find  the  hand- 
kerchief, but  when  she  came  down  Grandma  was  still 
talking  and  just  as  she  opened  the  dining-room  door  she 
heard  her  say: 

"The  trouble  with  you,  William,  is  that  you  are  a  rebel. 
You  have  never  forgiven  God — and  you  are  taking  it  out 
on  the  child." 

When  she  got  into  the  room  Father  was  looking  very 
red  and  angry.  He  was  going  to  say  something,  but 
stopped  when  he  saw  her.  What  did  "rebel"  mean  ?  And 
what  was  it  about  God,  Father  always  said  that  God 
would  not  forgive  unless  one  was  sorry.  Did  God  have 
to  be  sorry,  too?  She  almost  forgot  her  troubles  in  her 
curiosity.    But  Grandma  began  to  talk  about  the  weather. 

As  soon  as  the  meal  was  over  Isabel  slipped  away  and 
ran  upstairs  to  Grandma's  room.  It  seemed  to  her  the 
safest  place.  And  Grandma's  lap,  into  which  she  soon 
cuddled,  was  a  good  refuge ;  and  Bible  stories  were  both 
soothing  and  entertaining.  There  were  other  stories,  how- 
ever, which  she  liked  better.  She  put  persuasive  arms 
around  Grandma's  neck. 

"Now  tell  me,"  she  coaxed,  "about  my  little  uncles  and 


Isabel  Stirling  7 

aunts.  I  haven't  forgotten.  Little  Aunt  Lucy  was  sweet 
and  had  light  hair.  And  little  Aunt  Janey  always 
laughed.  And  little  Uncle  Johnny  used  to  hug — just  like 
this.  And  they  all  died  in  a  week  of  scarlet  fever.  Tell 
me  about  them  again." 

Grandma  held  her  close.  "I  don't  think  I  n«©d  to, 
dearie/' 

"And  then  there  was  Uncle  Dan,"  went  on  Isabel, 
proud  to  show  that  she  remembered.  "He  grew  up  and 
helped  you.    Tell  me  some  more  about  them  all." 

"Not  now,  darling.    I  can't  talk  now." 

"Not  even  about  Mother?" 

Grandma  was  silent  and  the  child,  looking  up,  saw 
tears  in  her  eyes  and  was  awestruck.  So  she  sat  very 
still  and  presently  dropped  asleep,  while  Grandma  held 
her  close  and  thought  of  many  things.  Why,  she  was 
wondering,  of  all  her  children,  should  there  be  left  to 
her  only  the  ones  who  had  inherited  from  her  husband's 
harsh  mother  that  sombre  temper  which  made  them  so 
depressing  to  live  with?  And  to  think  that  in  becoming 
a  minister  William  had  grown  to  believe  that  his  severity 
had  a  religious  justification.  He  ought  to  have  been 
anything  else.  As  to  religion— of  course  she  and  their 
father  had  brought  the  children  up  to  believe  the  very 
things  which  now  seemed  so  much  less  important.  When 
you  are  young  you  can  bear  up  against  that  kind  of  re- 
ligion, but  not  when  you  are  old.  Grandma  had  outlived 
much  of  her  early  creed.  She  had  her  doubts  about  Hell. 
She  was  pretty  tired  of  life,  and  sad  to  think  that  all 
she  and  her  John  had  to  show  for  their  joys  and  sorrows 
and  struggles  was  the  one  little  grandchild — and  William 
and  Eliza,  of  course.  Poor  Eliza !  Happiness  would 
have  agreed  with  her,  but  William  had  stopped  that; 
William  and  her  own  stern  creed.  Yes,  there  were  the 
children  in  Heaven,  but — what  would  it  all  be  like?  The 
only  thing  you  were  really  sure  of  was  old  Earth.  Yet 
it  would  be  an  adventure — dying;  and  John  would  be 
sure  to  be  the  same ;  and  she  would  gladly  go  and  try  it. 
Only — there  was  Isabel. 


8  Isabel  Stirling 

True,  William  might  marry  again,  even  though  he  had 
never  cared  for  anyone  but  poor  pretty  Bell,  and  had 
never  forgiven  God  or  the  baby  for  her  death.  But  he 
was  only  thirty-five — and  all  those  women  running  after 
him.  That  gave  food  for  thought,  too.  She  must  try 
to  live  for  the  child's  sake. 


II 

From  five  to  six  is  a  long  step,  when  you  are  the  one  who 
takes  it.  At  six,  Isabel  felt  that  she  was  a  person  of 
knowledge  and  experience.  Under  Grandma's  teaching, 
she  could  read  pretty  well,  if  the  words  were  not  too 
long.  Also,  although  she  did  not  go  to  school,  she 
went  regularly  to  Sunday-school,  where  she  learned  a 
number  of  hymns  and  many  texts  from  the  Bible,  as  well 
as  an  amount  of  Calvinistic  doctrine  extraordinary  for 
so  small  a  child.  Of  course,  she  had  known  for  a  long 
time  that  there  were  such  places  as  Heaven  and  Hell  and 
that  one  was  likely — in  fact,  certain — to  die  and  go  to 
one  or  the  other  of  them,  according  as  one  obeyed  God 
or  the  Devil.  Not  your  body,  of  course.  That  went  into 
the  ground.  But  your  soul,  which  was  You,  inside  of 
your  body.  As  to  the  way  in  which  it  got  out  of  your 
body,  Isabel  had  her  own  theory.  If  you  had  been 
naughty,  the  Devil  got  you,  whether  you  liked  him  or 
not.  On  the  other  hand,  in  order  to  get  to  Heaven,  where 
the  little  angels  played  on  harps,  it  wasn't  enough  to  be 
good.  You  must  love  God  besides.  To  love  God — that 
was  such  a-  difficult  thing  to  do.  You  loved  Grandma — 
dearly.  Of  Father  and  God  you  were  about  equally 
afraid.  Isabel  thought  a  great  deal  about  these  things 
as  she  played  with  her  dolls  in  her  solitary  fashion,  but 
she  did  not  talk  about  them.  It  was  a  pity  she  did  not 
talk  to  Grandma,  but  a  child's  reserve  is  impenetrable. 

She  did  not  have  to  play  alone  quite  all  the  time.  Down 
the  steep  hill  in  the  back  yard  was  a  rickety  flight  of 
wooden  steps,  and  at  the  bottom  a  level  space  before  you 
got  to  the  fence.  This  space  was  shaded  by  a  big  apple- 
tree,  and  in  the  fence  was  a  small  gate  opening  into  the 
Giffords's  back  yard.  Jessie  Gifford  was  allowed  to  come 
through  the  gate  and  as  far  as  the  steps  whenever  she 

9 


io  Isabel  Stirling 

liked,  and  there  the  two  had  established  their  playground; 
too  small  a  place  for  active  sports,  but  large  enough  for 
dolls'  housekeeping.  Unfortunately,  Jessie,  who  was 
seven,  went  to  school  and  was  only  available  at  off  times 
and  on  Saturdays.  However,  they  made  the  most  of 
those  times. 

Just  now,  their  favorite  game  was  "cemetery."  On 
the  way  home  from  school  Jessie  passed  a  stone-cutter's 
yard  and  picked  up  the  most  fascinating  bits  of  marble. 
To  be  sure,  they  were  not  shaped  very  regularly  for 
tombstones,  but  here  and  there  one  was  fairly  symmetri- 
cal and  the  children  made  the  best  of  the  other  bits,  plant- 
ing them  in  the  ground  and  heaping  up  little  mounds. 
They  had  learned  how  to  make  folded  paper  into  boxes, 
into  which  they  put  their  paper  dolls  and  buried  them, 
digging  them  up  afterwards.  Jessie  played  this  game 
placidly,  but  Isabel  did  not  more  than  half  enjoy  it,  be- 
cause she  felt  that  she  was  not  playing  fair.  To  play 
fair,  she  should  have  cut  the  paper  dolls  in  two  at  the 
waist  line,  to  let  their  souls  out,  for  that  was  her  theory 
of  the  manner  of  the  soul's  escape.  "You,"  as  she  real- 
ized quite  well,  were  just  in  the  middle  of  your  body,  and 
to  let  You  out  your  legs  must  come  off.  Her  idea  was 
that  the  legs  disappeared  entirely  and  were  never  seen 
again.  She  never  mentioned  this  to  Jessie  or  to  anyone 
else,  partly  because  children  don't  tell  their  inmost 
thoughts,  partly  because  she  was  afraid  that  if  the  matter 
were  once  squarely  brought  up,  they  would  have  to  play 
fair;  and  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  sacrifice  her 
dolls.  But  she  was  very  uncomfortable  about  it.  She 
felt  that  she  ought  to  give  up  playing  cemetery,  but 
couldn't  make  up  her  mind  to  that  either.  On  the  whole, 
her  self-respect  suffered. 

She  had  been  sitting  on  the  lowest  step  one  afternoon, 
making  her  little  boxes,  to  be  in  readiness  for  Jessie's 
return.  When  she  had  used  up  all  her  paper  she  piled 
them  up  under  the  tree,  where  she  had  already  laid  the 
collection  of  marble  chips;  for  they  were  going  to  begin 
fresh  that  day.    She  thought  she  would  go  up  to  the  gar- 


Isabel  Stirling  II 

den  and  pick  the  little  flowers  that  Grandma  always  let 
her  have.  There  were  some  left  still,  although  summer 
was  really  over.  She  climbed  the  shaky  steps  and  ran 
up  the  slope  and  around  to  the  flower  garden  on  the  other 
side  of  the  house.  As  she  did  so,  she  saw  a  buggy  at 
the  door  and  Father  standing  on  the  steps  talking  to  the 
doctor.  Isabel  knew  the  doctor  well  and  liked  him,  in 
spite  of  his  doses.  If  he  had  been  alone  she  would  have 
ran  up  to  him,  but  she  always  kept  out  of  the  way  of 
Father.  She  changed  her  mind  about  the  flowers  and 
thought  she  would  go  and  ask  Grandma  if  the  doctor  was 
coming  in.  She  ran  around  to  the  back  door  and  was 
hurrying  to  the  sitting-room  when  Norah  met  her. 

"Don't  go  in,"  said  Norah,  not  unkindly,  and  stretched 
out  a  detaining  hand.     "Yer  grandma's  sick." 

Isabel  tried  to  pull  herself  away.  "I  can  go  in  the 
sitting-room"  she  said  in  remonstrance. 

"No,  no!"  Norah  held  on  to  her.  "Yer  grandma's 
in  there." 

"Then  she  isn't  sick,"  said  Isabel.  "Sick  people  are 
in  their  bedroom." 

"She  couldn't  be  took  to  her  bedroom,"  explained 
Norah.  "She  fell  downstairs.  They're  makin'  a  bed  in 
the  sitting-room.  I  just  brought  down  the  things.  Come 
in  the  kitchen  an'  be  a  good  child  an'  I'll  let  ye  make  a 
little  pie." 

For  a  moment  Isabel  stood  transfixed.  Grandma  fall 
downstairs !  Only  children  fell  downstairs.  Overcome  by 
horror  she  let  herself  be  drawn  into  the  kitchen.  The 
Giffords's  Bridget  was  there,  in  the  rocking-chair.  True 
to  her  promise,  Norah  hurriedly  got  out  flour  and  other 
ingredients  and  prepared  a  bit  of  dough  for  the  child, 
while  Isabel  stood  looking  on. 

"They'll  be  wantin'  me,"  she  muttered,  "but  sure,  'tis 
herself  wud  want  the  child  looked  after." 

"Will  they  be  thinkin'  it's  a  sthroke  the  old  lady  had?" 
asked  Bridget,  rocking  luxuriously  back  and  forth. 

"Hush!"  said  Norah. 

"A  stroke?"  thought  Isabel.    "What  is  that?  and  why 


12  Isabel  Stirling 

'hush'?"  Before  Norah  could  stop  her  she  ran  out  of 
the  kitchen,  through  the  passage  and  into  the  sitting-room. 
There  was  a  bed  there,  which  was  very  strange.  Mrs. 
Gifford,  Jessie's  mother,  was  standing  by  it  and  Father 
and  the  doctor  had  Grandma  in  their  arms  and  were  lay- 
ing her  on  it.  And  Grandma  groaned — a  terrible  sound. 
Her  face  was  terrible,  too.  Isabel  could  not  quite  believe 
that  it  was  Grandma  at  all.  She  turned  and  fled  out  of 
doors  to  the  remotest  part  of  the  garden,  where  she  threw 
herself,  face  down,  on  the  grass  and  broke  into  wild  sobs. 

It  was  growing  dark  when  Norah  found  time  to  look 
for  her.  She  brought  her  in  and  gave  her  some  supper 
in  the  bright,  warm  kitchen,  and  then  put  her  to  bed. 
Isabel  sobbed  again  at  the  sight  of  Grandma's  empty  bed 
beside  her  little  one.  She  cried  herself  to  sleep  and  woke 
up  later  to  see  a  light,  and  a  woman  getting  into  Grand- 
ma's bed.  Her  eyes  were  heavy  and,  forgetting  the  after- 
noon, she  thought  it  was  Grandma  herself.  Hours  after 
that,  however,  she  woke  again — wide  awake  this  time — 
and  saw  Norah  with  a  candle.  Norah  was  crying.  She 
went  to  the  bed  and  the  woman  in  it  sat  up. 

"The  old  lady's  gone,"  said  Norah. 

At  that,  the  woman  in  the  bed  got  up  and  stood  on 
the  floor,  and  Isabel  saw  that  it  wasn't  Grandma  at  all, 
but  Miss  Tully,  a  tall,  thin  woman  whom  she  had  often 
seen  in  church.  But  what  was  she  doing  here  in  Grand- 
ma's bed?  Miss  Tully  dressed  herself  quickly — she  did 
not  seem  to  have  been  quite  undressed — and,  lighting 
another  candle,  left  the  room,  followed  by  Norah. 

It  was  appallingly  strange.  "Norah,  Norah!"  cried 
Isabel,  but  Norah  was  out  of  hearing.  Isabel  shivered 
with  fear  of  the  unknown  and  put  her  head  under  the 
bedclothes  where  she  lay  quaking  until  she  finally  fell 
asleep  again. 

In  the  morning  Norah  came  and  helped  her  to  dress 
and  gave  her  a  good  breakfast  in  the  kitchen.  After  that, 
she  told  her  that  Grandma  was  dead. 

"And  gone  to  Heaven?"  said  Isabel. 


Isabel  Stirling  13 

Norah's  heart  overcame  her  theology  and  she  said, 
"Yes,  darlin',  sure  she's  gone  to  Heaven." 

Isabel,  awestruck,  did  not  weep  at  this  announcement, 
and  later,  when  her  father  sent  for  her,  she  was  quite 
composed  in  manner.  He  was  in  his  study,  and  Aunt 
Eliza  was  there  too.  How  had  Aunt  Eliza  got  there? 
She  always  came  and  went  on  the  cars  and  waved  a  hand- 
kerchief from  the  other  hill,  across  the  ravine.  Isabel 
submitted  dutifully  to  a  kiss  from  her  and  then,  to  her 
surprise,  her  father  lifted  her  on  his  knee  and  kissed 
her  too. 

"If  you  feel  that  you  can  give  up  your  position  and 
look  after  her, — "  he  was  saying  to  Aunt  Eliza. 

And  Aunt  Eliza  answered:  "Of  course,  William.  It 
is  my  duty  to  do  it." 

Father's  face  was  white  and  he  was  looking  very  sorry. 
When  he  put  his  arm  around  her  Isabel  glanced,  half 
fearfully,  into  his  face  and  was  conscious  that  he  was 
different  from  the  father  she  had  known. 

"You  know  that  God  has  taken  your  grandmother?" 
he  said  to  her. 

"Yes,  Father."  She  suddenly  wanted  to  put  her  arm 
around  his  neck  and  kiss  him,  but  did  not  dare,  and 
began  to  cry,  instead. 

His  arm  relaxed  its  hold.  "You  will  be  very  good  and 
quiet,"  he  said,  kindly  enough,  "and  not  give  any  trouble." 

She  looked  up  at  him.  wistfully.  "Yes,  sir,"  she  said 
meekly,  and  slipped  down  from  his  knee. 

She  would  have  liked  to  stay  in  the  kitchen  with  Norah, 
but  there  was  so  much  company  there,  It  seemed  as 
if  all  the  Irish  servants  of  the  village  had  come  in,  and 
they  said  things  which — half  understood  as  they  were 
— deepened  her  sense  of  horror  and  mystery.  She  shrank 
from  their  caresses  and  wandered  into  the  empty  dining- 
room.  Her  father  was  shut  up  in  his  study  and  Aunt 
Eliza  seemed  to  be  very  busy  with  the  people  who  were 
coming  and  going  in  the  parlor. 

Later  in  the  day  Norah  said  to  her:  "Wouldn't  ye  like 
to  see  yer  grandma  now?    It's  beautiful  she  looks." 


14  Isabel  Stirling 

Isabel  drew  back,  remembering  how  Grandma  had 
looked  when  she  saw  her  being  lifted  into  bed. 

"Come  now,  don't  be  afraid,"  urged  Norah.  "Ye'll 
be  glad  ye've  seen  her." 

She  took  the  child  by  the  hand  and  led  her  to  the  dark- 
ened room.  Pulling  up  the  blind  a  little,  she  turned  down 
the  sheet  which  covered  Grandma's  face.  Then  she  drew 
up  Isabel's  own  little  chair  and  made  her  stand  on  it. 
Isabel  had  been  trembling  and  shivering,  but  the  first 
sight  of  Grandma's  face  quieted  her.  This  was  the  face 
she  loved,  and  sweeter  than  she  had  ever  seen  it.  Child 
as  she  was,  she  stood  spellbound  before  that  look  of  deep, 
ineffable  peace.  Grandma  looked  as  if  she  had  solved 
all  mysteries  and  had  at  last  obtained  her  heart's  desire. 
The  little  child  gazed  on  and  on,  fixing  in  her  mind  an 
image  never  to  be  effaced.  But  oh,  if  Grandma  would 
only  open  her  eyes !  Isabel  leaned  over  and  gently  kissed 
her  cheek.  Norah  shivered  and  put  an  arm  around  her 
and  Isabel  turned  and  looked  at  her  in  wonder.  Why 
shouldn't  she  kiss  Grandma  ?  Her  cheek  was  cold,  to  bd 
sure,  but  not  colder  than  her  own  face  often  got,  only 
— it  had  always  been  warm  before — and  soft. 

Suddenly  her  eyes  traveled  down  the  white-covered 
figure  and  rested,  fascinated,  on  the  spot  where  the  sheet 
stood  up  in  a  point,  quite  as  if  there  were  feet  under  it. 
Isabel  put  that  aside  for  future  questions.  Then,  after 
one  more  look  at  Grandma's  face,  she  was  lifted  down 
from  the  chair,  the  sheet  was  replaced  and  the  blind 
drawn  again,  and  Norah  led  her  from  the  room. 

It  was  when  Norah  was  putting  her  to  bed  that  night 
that  she  put  her  question.  "But  what  was  it,"  she  asked, 
"that  looked  like  feet  on  Grandma — under  the  sheet?" 

"Why,  that  was  her  feet,  darlin',"  said  Norah,  much 
puzzled  at  the  question. 

"All  fastened  on  her?" 

"Of  course.    What  is  the  child  thinkin'  of?" 

"But  how" — it  was  difficult,  but  she  must  find  out — 
"how  did  her  soul  get  out  of  her?" 

"Why,  out  of  her  mouth,  sure,"  said  Norah. 


Isabel  Stirling  15 

"Does  it  always  get  out  that  way?" 

"Sure — always." 

The  idea  was  not  pleasing,  but  in  the  midst  of  all  that 
was  so  strange  and  dreadful  came  one  consoling  thought. 
She  had  played  fair  after  all,  and  needn't  have  worried. 

All  that  followed — the  mysterious  comings  and  goings 
in  the  darkened  house,  the  funeral,  with  its  droning 
sounds  of  praying  and  preaching  and  mournful  hymns, 
even  the  visit,  under  Aunt  Eliza's  guidance,  to  see  Grand- 
ma in  her  coffin,  did  not  efface  the  impression  of  that 
first  visit  with  Norah.  Seated  on  Norah's  lap  at  an 
upper  window,  she  watched  the  funeral  procession  as  it 
moved  slowly  away.  Father,  consulting  what  he  knew 
would  be  his  mother's  wish,  had  mercifully  ordained  that 
she  should  not  accompany  it. 


Ill 

At  first  Isabel  forgot  sometimes  and  came  running  into 
the  house,  calling  for  Grandma,  and  weeping  when  she 
did  not  find  her,  but  in  time  she  learned  to  remember, 
and  to  forget.  When  she  needed  comfort  it  was  to  Norah 
that  she  turned,  for  except  during  the  daily  lesson  hour, 
Aunt  Eliza  was  too  busy  to  be  troubled  with  her.  Nor 
were  the  lessons  inspiring,  for  her  aunt,  while  a  good 
teacher  for  older  pupils,  had  no  aptitude  for  small  chil- 
dren. Moreover,  Miss  Stirling  was  taking  her  house- 
keeping cares  very  seriously  indeed  and  had  no  time  for 
foolishness.  Isabel  must  keep  herself  clean  and  not  tear 
her  clothes,  and  she  must  not  get  in  the  way  while  the 
great  household  rites  of  washing  and  ironing,  sweeping 
and  dusting,  preserving,  pickling  and  baking,  were  being 
observed.  There  was  no  intermission  between  them,  al- 
though they  were  interrupted  by  visits  from  ladies  who 
belonged  to  Fathers  church.  Aunt  Eliza  frowned  se- 
verely on  those  ladies  when  they  petted  Isabel  and  said 
how  pretty  she  was.  She  once  overheard  her  aunt  say 
something  about  Miss  Lydia  Baird  "setting  her  cap,"  but 
she  was  quite  sure  that  Miss  Lydia  didn't  wear  a  cap. 
However,  she  was  obliged  to  keep  out  of  the  way  more 
than  ever  when  the  company  came.  Also,  she  must,  even 
while  keeping  out  of  the  way,  be  mindful  of  every  rule 
laid  down  for  her.  "I  forgot"  was  never  accepted  as 
an  excuse. 

Norah  soon  disappeared  from  the  scene,  being  weighed 
and  found  wanting.  Her  affections  were  warm,  but  her 
kitchen  closets  were  undeniably  untidy.  With  her  de- 
parture Isabel  lost  the  last  person  with  a  lap  to  climb  into. 
The  day  of  caresses  was  over,  for  the  stiff  good-night 
kisses  of  her  father  and  her  aunt  could  hardly  be  con- 

16 


Isabel  Stirling  17 

sidered  in  that  light.  Under  this  regime  she  developed 
an  extraordinary  aptitude  for  naughtiness.  Her  days 
were  punctuated  by  punishments  and  she  never  had  a 
clear  conscience.  She  knew  that  she  was  naughty  and 
sure  to  go  to  Hell  if  she  died;  and  Death  was  waiting 
around  the  corner.  It  seemed  as  if  nobody  ever  lost  a 
chance  of  telling  her  how  imminent  it  was,  even  for  the 
smallest  children.  No  criminal,  dodging  the  law,  lived 
a  more  exciting  life  than  the  minister's  little  daughter. 
She  developed  a  morbid  appetite  for  excitement  and  be- 
came a  rebel  against  authority. 

These  excitements  and  an  inordinate  love  of  sweets 
frequently  brought  her  to  grief.  Grandma  had  been  mod- 
erately indulgent  in  the  matter  of  goodies,  but  Aunt  Eliza 
considered  all  sweet  stuff  bad  for  children.  So  Isabel 
grew  sly  and  helped  herself,  sticking  fingers  into  sugar- 
bowls  and  jam-pots,  lying  in  wait  for  propitious  moments 
of  an  unlocked  storeroom  and  helping  herself  largely  to 
fruit-cake,  pound-cake,  anything  that  came  first.  Hence, 
headaches;  and  odious  doses;  and  dreadful  dreams  at 
night— dreams  of  a  strange  man  who  lurked  in  the  room 
of  Punishments  next  the  study  and,  coming  out  suddenly 
upon  people,  seized  them  by  the  head  and  feet  and  broke 
them  in  two.  He  never  caught  her,  but  the  floor  used 
to  be  strewn  with  the  fragments  of  the  rest  of  the  family, 
and  she  would  awake  bathed  in  perspiration  from  the 
mad  exertion  of  running  away  from  him.  It  was,  on 
the  whole,  an  unhappy  life,  in  which  the  brightest  spots 
were  the  hours  spent  in  simple  play  with  Jessie  under 
the  apple-tree.  But  Jessie  had  other  companions  nowa- 
days and  only  came  when  she  had  nothing  better  to  do. 

Even  better  than  Jessie,  Isabel  loved  Jessie's  mother. 
She  had  a  lap,  if  you  please,  nice  and  soft  and  adapted 
to  cuddling ;  and  she  was  always  ready  to  offer  that  ref- 
uge to  the  forlorn  child.  Her  cheeks  were  soft  too,  and 
prettily  pink  and  kissable,  and  her  eyes  smiled  even  when 
her  mouth  was  serious.  With  her  was  happiness  and 
cosy  comfort.  Jessie's  father  was  nice  too,  in  his  quiz- 
zical way,  and  one  wasn't  much  afraid  of  him.    But  Aunt , 


18  Isabel  Stirling 

Eliza  thought  that  little  girls  should  stay  at  home.  Isabel 
had  stringent  orders  not  to  go  through  the  little  gate  with- 
out permission,  on  pain  of  having  it  nailed  up;  and  the 
path  through  the  Giffords's  back  yard  was  only  too  visible 
from  those  quarters  of  the  house  where  Aunt  Eliza  was 
apt  to  be  busying  hercelf,  as  well  as  from  the  study  win- 
dows. So  the  times  when  Paradise  was  open  were  few 
and  far  between. 

However,  the  front  gate  was  down  the  hill  on  the  other 
side  and  well  out  of  sight,  since  the  parsonage  was  on 
the  summit  of  an  eminence,  with  the  ground  sloping  down 
on  three  sides.  Isabel  used  to  stand  at  that  gate,  peering 
through  the  pickets  and  waiting  for  she  knew  not  what 
adventure,  until  one  September  day  Adventure  came  to 
her.  It  came  in  the  person  of  a  small  girl;  an  enchant- 
ing girl  with  a  broad,  jolly,  freckled  face  and  braids  of 
mud-colored  hair  looped  up  in  front  of  each  ear  and  tied 
with  pink  ribbons.  Isabel  adored  braids,  which  she 
thought  far  superior  to  curls. 

"Hello  r  said  Isabel. 

"Hello !"  said  the  girl,  smiling  cheerfully. 

Immediate  friendship.  The  girl  couldn't  come  in,  how- 
ever. Had  to  go  home.  Wouldn't  Isabel  come  too? 
Isabel  looked  back  at  the  house.  No  one  in  sight  and  the 
day  stretched  out  limitless  till  supper-time. 

"I'll  bring  you  home  again,"  said  the  girl. 

Isabel  opened  the  gate  and  went  out.  They  ran  down 
the  street  and  turned  a  corner  in  a  direction  new  to  Isa- 
bel. They  crossed  a  bridge  and  she  was  on  the  other 
side  of  the  creek.  Looking  upstream  she  could  see  the 
mill  on  which  she  looked  down  from  the  sitting-room 
windows.  She  had  always  longed  to  get  on  the  other 
side  of  that  creek.  They  went  up  the  hill  a  short  dis- 
tance and  turned  into  a  house  standing  directly  on  the 
street.  The  two-story  verandah  with  the  wooden  pillars 
looked  very  grand  to  Isabel  as  they  approached.  She 
did  not  so  much  like  the  looks  of  the  men  sitting  on  the 
lower  verandah,  with  their  feet  on  the  railing,  but  her 
new  friend,  whose  name,  by  the  way,  was  Cassie,  hurried 


Isabel  Stirling  19 

her  past  them.  A  stuffy  smell  of  cooking  greeted  them 
as  they  entered  the  house.  A  boy  came  tearing  down 
the  stairs  with  a  great  clatter  of  heavy  shoes.  He  was 
larger  than  Cassie,  but  just  as  freckled  and  jolly. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Dick?"  said  Cassie. 

"To  play  ball,"  he  answered,  without  stopping  his 
headlong  course. 

Isabel  looked  after  him.  She  had  never  seen  such  a 
boy  and  was  glad  that  he  had  gone.  They  went  on  up 
the  stairs  and  into  a  large,  bright  room,  strewn  about 
with  playthings.  Dolls  were  everywhere  and  a  dolls' 
house  in  one  corner ;  an  enchanting  room.  Near  the  win- 
dow, in  the  sun,  lay  an  old  cat,  asleep,  with  two  kittens 
frisking  about  her.  Isabel  sat  down  on  the  floor  and 
gathered  kittens  and  dolls  in  her  lap. 

Presently  the  door  opened  and  a  young  woman  came 
in.  She  was  a  pretty  young  woman,  with  a  laughing 
mouth  and  serious  eyes,  and  glossy  brown  hair,  knotted 
loosely  at  the  back  of  her  neck.  "Why,  who  is  this?" 
she  asked. 

"Oh,  here's  Aunt  Mary!"  cried  Cassie  joyfully. 
"Aunt  Mary  will  play  with  us.  This  is  Isabel.  She's 
come  to  see  me." 

Aunt  Mary  proved  to  be  a  capital  playmate.  "I  wish 
you  were  my  Aunt  Mary,"  said  Isabel. 

This  was  when,  after  a  delightful  season  of  dolls' 
housekeeping,  she  was  sitting  on  the  young  woman's  lap, 
her  head  resting  on  the  friendly  shoulder. 

"I  wish  I  were.  I'd  spoil  you  well.  But  you  haven't 
told  me  your  other  name,  darling,  and  where  you  came 
from.  You  might  have  dropped  right  down  from  the 
sky." 

"My  name  is  Isabel  Stirling.  I  live  'way  off  across 
the  bridge  and  up  the  hill." 

Aunt  Mary's  face  changed.  "Is  your  father  the  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Stirling?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Isabel.    "He — he  preaches." 

"And  do  they  know  where  you  are?"  asked  Aunt 
Mary,  her  face  quite  serious  now. 


20  Isabel  Stirling 

"No.  I — "  shamefacedly — "I  ran  away.  Perhaps  I 
must  go  home  now." 

"Oh,  can't  she  stay  to  tea?"  cried  Cassie. 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Aunt  Mary.  "We'd  like  to  have 
her,  but  they  don't  know  where  she  is.  Get  her  sunbon- 
net,  Cassie.    We'll  go  most  of  the  way  with  you." 

"I  want  to  come  again,"  said  Isabel. 

"And  we  want  to  have  you.  But  you  mustn't  run 
away,  you  know." 

Isabel  hung  her  head.  "Aunt  Eliza  don't  let  me  go 
visiting." 

They  started  out,  down  the  stairs,  through  the  hall  and 
across  the  verandah,  where  the  men  still  sat,  smoking 
and  spitting.  As  they  came  down  the  steps,  a  lady  was 
passing.  She  looked  around  at  them  and  then  stood 
stock-still,  gazing  at  the  three.  Isabel  knew  her  at  once. 
It  was  Miss  Lydia  Baird. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  Isabel  ?"  asked  Miss  Baird, 
in  her  honeyed  accents. 

Isabel  did  not  answer. 

"We  are  taking  her  home,"  said  Aunt  Mary. 

"But  how  did  she  get  here  ?  What  are  you  doing  with 
her?"  Miss  Baird's  tone  was  now  severe  and  inquisi- 
torial. 

"She  came  in  with  my  little  niece  and  I  am  taking  her 
home."  Aunt  Mary  spoke  with  a  greater  dignity  than 
Miss  Baird's. 

"Come  with  me,  Isabel,  and  I  will  take  you  home." 
Miss  Baird  held  out  a  hand. 

"No,"  said  Isabel,  and  did  not  budge. 

"You  must  come  with  me,  Isabel." 

"No,"  repeated  the  child.    "Aunt  Mary  will  take  me." 

"Aunt  Mary !"  Miss  Lydia  Baird  was  more  than  scan- 
dalized. Since  that  naughty  child  would  not  go  with  her 
— what  had  those  dreadful  people  done  to  bewitch  her 
so? — the  least  she  could  do  was  to  follow  at  a  discreet 
distance  to  see  that  they  really  did  take  her  home.  She 
saw  them  leave  her  at  the  gate  and  then  she  went  in  her- 


Isabel  Stirling  21 

self  and  rang  the  doorbell.  She  did  not  ask  for  Aunt 
Eliza,  whom  she  felt  to  be  not  altogether  her  friend, 
but  inquired  if  Mr.  Stirling  would  see  her.  Shown  into 
his  study,  she  sat  down  and  turned  a  shocked,  sympa- 
thetic face  toward  him. 

"I  think  it  my  duty  to  tell  you,"  she  began,  "that  I 
met  your  dear  little  Isabel  just  now,  coming  out  of  Mai- 
den's tavern.' ' 

Had  the  woman  gone  crazy?  Under  the  least  aggra- 
vating circumstances  the  mention  of  Maiden's  tavern  was 
to  the  Reverend  William  Stirling  as  a  red  rag  to  a  bull — 
a  drinking  resort  of  which  he  had  an  even  lower  opinion 
than  it  deserved,  and  which  he  had  vowed  to  extirpate. 
He  had  already  crossed  swords  with  its  proprietor,  but 
had  got  the  worst  of  it.  He  did  not  love  Peter  Maiden 
the  better  for  his  ability  to  prove  that  he  had  not  violated 
the  law.  That  his  own  child  should  be  mentioned  in  the 
same  breath  with  Maiden,  struck  him  as  equally  gro- 
tesque and  insulting. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  explain  yourself,"  he  said  stiffly. 

Lydia  didn't  like  his  manner,  but  her  tone  became 
sweeter  than  ever  as  she  replied:  "I  hardly  thought  you 
could  know  it.  I  had  occasion  to  pass  there — it's  a  shame 
that  it  is  right  in  one's  way  going  up  South  Street — and 
I  saw  little  Isabel  coming  down  the  steps  with  a  young 
woman  and  a  little  girl.  She  refused  to  come  with  me 
and  clung  to  the  woman,  whom  she  called  'Aunt  Mary.' 
She  seemed  very  fond  of  her." 

At  first  the  minister  felt  merely  the  shock  of  astonish- 
ment. Then  his  anger  mounted.  "They  must  have  en- 
ticed her  away,"  he  said.  His  eyes  flamed.  He  clenched 
his  hands  and,  rising  from  his  chair,  strode  up  and  down 
the  room  in  an  effort  to  control  himself.  Miss  Baird 
confided  to  a  friend  that  she  had  never  been  so  fright- 
ened in  her  life.  "That  man  has  a  temper,  my  dear,  and 
I  expect  that  naughty  child  got  what  she  deserved." 

Having  learned  that  the  child  had  been  brought  home, 
he  made  short  work  of  his  visitor.  "Yes,  you  did  quite 
right,"  he  said.    "I  am  obliged  to  you  for  following  them 


22  Isabel  Stirling 

and  letting  me  know;"  and  then  he  bowed  her  out  and 
shut  his  study  door  behind  her. 

Left  alone,  he  struggled  to  obtain  control  of  himself, 
and  did  not  send  for  the  child  until  he  felt  that  his  wrath 
had  passed  into  the  stage  of  righteous  indignation.  Nev- 
ertheless, it  was  the  Day  of  Judgment  for  Isabel.  She 
was  terrified,  but  truthful.  No,  she  had  never  been  there 
before.  She  had  not  been  carried  away.  She  had  just 
opened  the  gate  and  gone  out  because  Cassie  had  asked 
her  to  go  home  with  her.  Yes,  she  knew  it  was  naughty, 
but— "please,  Father  I" 

"Please,  Father,"  did  not  avail.  Even  the  courage 
which  the  terrified  child  showed  in  telling  the  truth  when, 
by  his  questions,  her  father  had  given  her  an  opportunity 
to  cast  some  of  the  blame  elsewhere,  made  no  impression. 
All  that  was  taken  as  a  matter  of  course.  She  was  led 
to  the  empty  room  and  treated  with  a  severity  which 
perhaps  afforded  some  relief  to  the  Reverend  Mr.  Stir- 
ling's overwrought  feelings. 

Later,  when  she  had  gone  to  bed,  sobbing  and  supper- 
less,  Aunt  Eliza  said  to  her  brother:  "I  suppose  you 
blame  me  for  letting  her  out  of  my  sight,  but  what  am  I 
to  do?  I  can't  have  my  eyes  on  her  every  minute.  She 
is  like  a  piece  of  quicksilver.  Really,  William,  you  will 
have  to  send  her  to  school  to  keep  her  out  of  mischief." 

"I  had  thought  you  could  teach  her,"  said  William. 
"She  seems  a  child  of  bad  impulses,"  he  added  bitterly. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can  teach  her  her  lessons,  as  far  as  that 
goes,"  answered  Eliza  with  some  asperity.  "But  I  can't 
do  everything.  Nobody  could.  Put  her  in  the  primary 
grade  of  the  Academy.  She  will  be  looked  after  for  five 
or  six  hours,  and  she'll  learn  all  they  teach  her.  She  is 
bright  enough.  She  and  Jessie  Gifford  can  go  and  come 
together." 

William  yielded  and  the  great  adventure  of  school 
began  for  Isabel. 


IV 

Isabel  skipped  like  a  lamb  beside  Aunt  Eliza  on  the  Mon- 
day morning  when  she  was  on  her  way  to  make  her  first 
appearance  as  a  pupil  in  the  village  Academy ;  but  there 
was  more  than  the  unthinking  joy  of  the  skipping  lamb 
in  her  ecstasy.  She  was  to  see  Life ;  to  have  companions. 
In  a  world ful  of  children  she  had  been  alone,  save  for 
those  hours  with  Jessie.  Now  she  was  to  have  children 
— and  more  children ! 

They  passed  through  the  girls'  playground,  a  green, 
shady  enclosure,  and  up  the  wooden  steps  into  a  shabby 
hallway.  On  the  other  side  the  Academy  presented  a 
brave  front  of  red  brick,  with  broad  stone  steps  and  a 
wide  doorway,  but  that  entrance  was  reserved  for  the 
boys — lords  of  creation — and  opened  on  their  play- 
ground, twice  as  large  as  that  of  the  girls,  but  a  bare 
place,  where  the  ballplayers  had  left  not  a  blade  of  grass 
alive.  Little  cared  Isabel  for  shabbiness.  Her  heart  beat 
high  as  she  mounted  the  worn,  slippery  stairs,  with  her 
hand  on  the  banister  down  which  she  was  so  often  to 
slide  recklessly.  She  turned  shy  when  she  entered  the 
large,  many-windowed  room  of  the  Primary  Department 
and  hung  back  a  little,  but  her  aunt  drew  her  along. 
Miss  Atkins,  a  pretty,  fresh-faced  country  girl,  new  to 
her  work  of  teaching,  met  Aunt  Eliza  with  blushes  and 
bade  her  good-bye  with  relief.  Isabel  she  regarded  with 
hopeful  interest,  beguiled  by  her  beauty  and  by  the  shy- 
ness which  masked  an  adventurous  spirit.  Jessie,  seated 
at  a  desk,  smiled  demurely  at  her  as  she  went  past,  led 
by  the  teacher  to  a  seat  by  a  deskmate  who,  by  chance 
was  also  a  Sunday-school  classmate.  She  would  have 
preferred  Jessie,  but  Lily  Brainard  greeted  her  with  a 
welcoming  smile. 


24  Isabel  Stirling 

What  happiness  to  be  joint  proprietor  of  one  of  those 
desks  in  the  old  Academy!  Battered  without,  but  spa- 
cious within,  they  held  many  treasures  besides  their  legiti- 
mate contents.  Lids  they  had,  behind  which  much  im- 
portant business  could  be  transacted  if  one  were  spry; 
and  since  each  desk,  with  its  two  compartments,  was 
meant  for  two  pupils,  two  heads  could  meet  in  conclave 
behind  the  raised  lid.  The  perfectly  new  pupil,  however, 
is  always  a  model  of  good  behavior.  It  is  joy  enough, 
so  far,  to  take  account  of  fresh  surroundings.  On  that 
first  day  Isabel  used  her  eyes  and  kept  her  mouth  closed. 
She  had  looked  around  immediately  to  see  whether  her 
friend  Cassie  might  perhaps  be  there,  but  could  not  find 
her.  Nor  was  Dick  among  the  boys,  seated  at  their  desks 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  beyond  the  recitation 
benches.  He  would  have  been  too  big  for  the  Primary 
Department  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  brother  and 
sister  attended  the  Public  School. 

Boys  were  an  unknown  quantity  to  Isabel.  To  be  sure, 
there  was  Edmund  Gifford,  Jessie's  brother,  who  some- 
times vouchsafed  them  a  word  or  two,  but  he  was  much 
older — thirteen  or  fourteen.  After  a  survey  of  those 
opposite  desks  she  decided  that  she  did  not  like  boys. 
They  trooped  to  the  long  benches  nearest  their  side  of 
the  room  for  recitations,  and  she  had  a  fresh  access  of 
shyness  when  she  found  herself  brought  out  with  the  girls 
and  seated  on  the  corresponding  bench  on  the  girls'  side. 
However,  Miss  Atkins  praised  her  for  reading  so  well, 
and  praise  was  sweet  to  her,  and  new,  not  being  included 
in  Father's  and  Aunt  Eliza's  scheme  of  bringing  up  a 
child. 

Recess  came,  and  the  small  boys  disappeared  into  the 
mysterious  precincts  of  the  boys'  playground,  while  Isa- 
bel and  the  other  little  girls  repaired  to  their  own  domain, 
a  large  enclosure  of  grass  and  big  old  trees.  Just  now 
the  ground  was  strewn  with  the  first  red  and  yellow  leaves 
of  autumn.  They  were  obliged  to  keep  out  of  the  way 
of  the  older  girls  and  their  games,  but  they  had  room 
enough.    The  new  scholar  was  made  welcome  and  re- 


Isabel  Stirling  25 

entered  the  schoolroom  with  arms  entwined  in  those  of 
two  bosom  friends. 

Good  behavior  and  a  good  conscience  did  not  last  long. 
True,  there  was  legitimate  excitement  in  spelling  down 
the  class  and  in  the  applause  gained  by  prowess  in  mental 
arithmetic,  but  there  was  so  much  time  left  over !  Isabel 
bent  her  energies  to  devise  ingenious  ways  of  filling  those 
empty  half -hours  and  under  her  efficient  leadership  the 
Primary  Department  was  demoralized.  Poor  distracted 
Miss  Atkins  was  sometimes  fain  to  raise  her  own  desk- 
lid  and  shed  a  few  tears  under  its  shelter.  Sharp  little 
eyes  always  found  her  out  and  an  awestruck  whisper 
would  go  around  the  room — "Miss  Atkins  is  crying!" 
Then  for  perhaps  an  hour  everybody  would  be  preter- 
naturally  good.  Once  in  a  while,  indeed,  Isabel  tried  the 
experiment  of  being  good  for  several  days  at  a  time. 
That  in  itself  was  an  excitement.  Everybody  was  so 
astonished  and  Miss  Atkins  was  so  pleased.  But  when 
people  began  to  expect  her  to  be  quiet  and  well-behaved 
the  interest  was  gone  and  she  broke  out  afresh.  The 
room  was  filled  with  whisperings  and  gigglings;  little 
girls  quarrelled  more  or  less  dramatically ;  little  girls  were 
late  in  coming  in  after  recess ;  lessons  were  neglected. 

Punishments  were  numerous;  not  the  ferule,  which 
Miss  Atkins  hated,  but  everything  else  which  her  inge- 
nuity could  devise.  Isabel  sat  in  corners,  stayed  in  at 
recess,  studied  extra  lessons,  all  with  angelic  cheerfulness. 
She  was  always  willing  to  pay  the  price  of  her  amuse- 
ments so  long  as  there  was  no  humiliation  in  the  punish- 
ment and  if  only  she  might  not  be  found  out  at  home. 
Meantime,  Aunt  Eliza  thought  that  school  was  doing 
wonders  for  her;  so  easy  it  was  to  be  demurely  good  at 
home  when  there  was  so  much  fun  going  on  at  school. 
Yet  she  knew  she  was  naughty,  and  conscience  was  al- 
ways ready  to  give  her  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour. 

There  was  one  dark  winter  day  which  she  never  for- 
got. She  had  a  nagging  headache  and  had  been  not  only 
ill-behaved,  but  irritable.  Lily  Brainard,  who  greatly 
preferred  to  have  things  go  smoothly  and  easily,  had  been 


26  Isabel  Stirling 

drawn  into  her  misdoings  and  both  little  girls  were  kept 
after  school.  That  was  a  punishment  which  always  wor- 
ried Isabel,  lest  a  noticeable  lateness  in  getting  home 
should  draw  down  inquiries  which  she  could  not  parry. 
Then,  she  and  Lily  had  promised  each  other  not  to  cry, 
and  Lily  broke  the  compact  and  blubbered  freely  after 
she  herself  had  kept  a  stiff  upper  lip  when  it  would  have 
been  a  real  luxury  to  weep  and  repent.  For  Miss  Atkins 
could,  on  occasion,  talk  in  a  way  to  melt  a  stone.  When 
they  came  out  of  the  schoolhouse  it  was  already  dusk. 
The  snow  lay  thick  on  the  ground,  and  all  along  beside 
the  walk  it  showed  where  the  other  girls  had  lain  down 
to  make  "impressions."  But  Isabel  could  not  stop  to 
play  and,  in  fact,  did  not  feel  like  it.  She  had  lost  one 
mitten  and  was  cold  and  cross  and  uncomfortable. 

"You  cried !"  she  said  fiercely,  as  they  went  down  the 
walk  to  the  gate.  "I'll  never  speak  to  you  again,  Lily 
Brainard!" 

"I  don't  care,"  wailed  Lily.  "I  want  to  be  good.  Fm 
tired  of  being  naughty !" 

Isabel  felt  lonely  and  deserted.  She,  too,  would  have 
liked  to  be  good,  but  had  stood  out  on  a  point  of  honor. 
"You  broke  your  word  after  you  said  'hope  to  die/  "  she 
said  doggedly.  "If  you're  going  to  be  good  you'd  better 
learn  not  to  tell  lies." 

At  this,  Lily  burst  into  fresh  tears  and  Isabel  ran  away 
and  left  her,  a  forlorn  little  figure,  plodding  along  in 
the  dusk.  Isabel  ran  all  the  way  home.  Jessie  had  not 
waited  for  her  this  time.  Jessie,  in  fact,  was  puzzled  and 
disturbed  by  Isabel's  behavior  and,  while  always  loving 
her,  liked  her  less  well  at  school  than  at  home. 

Isabel  got  safely  in,  by  good  fortune.  Aunt  Eliza 
was  entertaining  Miss  Baird  in  the  parlor  and  Father  was 
out.  She  took  off  her  things  and  sat  down  by  the  sitting- 
room  fire.  Her  feelings  were  bruised  and  her  conscience 
hurt  her  more  than  usual.  Moreover,  her  head  was  ach- 
ing rather  badly.  She  was  dreadfully  afraid  she  would 
die  before  she  was  grown  up.  Once  grown  up,  she  would 
be  safe,  for  all  grown-up  people  were  good  and  loved 


Isabel  Stirling  27 

God,  even  when  they  were  people  you  didn't  care  for, 
like  Miss  Lydia.  That  is,  of  course,  there  were  thieves 
and  robbers,  and  the  heathen,  and  the  Jews  who  crucified 
Christ,  but  the  kind  of  grown  people  she  knew — the  kind 
she  would  of  course  be — tltey  all  loved  God.  She  herself 
didn't  and  couldn't,  and  she  was  about  the  naughtiest 
child  that  ever  lived;  that  she  knew  very  well.  Every 
night  she  kneeled  down  by  her  little  bed  and  said  her 
prayers,  but  her  one  heartfelt  petition,  the  true  cry  of  her 
soul,  was — "O  God,  let  me  live  to  grow  up!" 

It  was  going  to  be  horribly  stupid  to  be  grown  up,  but 
safe;  and  Isabel  would  stand  before  the  mirror  and 
smooth  her  curly  hair  down  primly  on  eac^i  side  of  her 
face,  as  Aunt  Eliza  wore  hers,  and  would  sigh  as  she 
thought  how  hideous  she  was  going  to  be.  As  to  a  pos- 
sible change  of  fashion  in  the  arrangement  of  grown-up 
hair,  such  an  idea  never  entered  her  head.  As  Aunt  Eliza 
wore  her  hair  now,  so  she  herself  must  wear  hers  in  that 
distant,  dull,  but  safe  future.  To-night  she  felt  that  she 
didn't  care  how  dull  it  might  be,  or  how  she  would  look. 
She  was  very  tired  of  the  troubles  of  childhood.  When 
Miss  Baird  finally  left  and  the  tea-bell  rang,  she  went 
into  the  dining-room  and  tried  to  eat  her  supper,  but 
had  no  appetite.  Afterward  she  did  her  half-hour's  task 
of  knitting,  and  then  Aunt  Eliza  lighted  her  little  pewter 
lamp  and  told  her  it  was  bedtime. 

Isabel  had  her  own  room  now,  for  Aunt  Eliza  liked 
hers  to  herself.  Also,  she  considered  the  child  quite  old 
enough  to  go  to  bed  hy  herself.  When  Isabel  took  her 
little  lamp  and,  leaving  the  light  and  warmth  of  the  sit- 
ting-room, went  upstairs  alone,  she  went  into  a  world 
of  mystery  and  dread.  It  never  occurred  to  her  to  ask 
Aunt  Eliza  to  go  with  her,  as  Grandma  had  always  done, 
and  she  would  not  for  the  world  have  told  her  fears. 
To-night  the  ascent  of  the  stairs  seemed  more  formidable 
than  ever.  She  went  up  slowly,  guarding  her  light  from 
drafts;  for  as  between  the  fear  lest  Something  should 
catch  her  feet  from  below,  and  the  danger  of  extinguish- 


28  Isabel  Stirling 

ing  her  lamp  if  she  should  run,  she  chose  the  former 
alternative.    Darkness  was  worse  than  anything. 

Once  safely  in  her  room,  she  set  down  the  lamp  with 
a  sigh  of  relief,  but  was  at  once  confronted  with  a  new 
danger.  For  in  the  tiny  closet  of  her  room,  a  closet  to 
which  she  went  in  the  daylight  without  a  tremor,  lived, 
after  dark,  a  skeleton.  She  had  never  yet  seen  him,  but 
ever  since  the  time  when  she  had  heard  Aunt  Eliza  speak 
of  the  "skeleton  in  the  closet,"  she  had  known  that  this 
was  the  closet.  In  some  mysterious  way  the  skeleton  had 
imposed  certain  terms  on  her.  As  long  as  she  could  suc- 
ceed in  preventing  the  tiniest  bit  of  her  skin  from  being 
visible — except,  of  course,  her  hands  and  face — so  long 
the  skeleton  would  refrain  from  molesting  her ;  but  once 
expose  an  atom  of  arm  or  leg  or  foot,  then  it  would  jump 
out  of  the  closet  and  leap  upon  her. 

Under  these  circumstances,  undressing  was  attended 
with  difficulties.  First  of  all,  she  said  her  prayers.  There 
was  always  a  quaking  feeling  of  something  behind  her, 
but  to-night,  when  her  conscience  was  so  unusually  tor- 
menting, her  terror  was  almost  unbearable.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  refuge  from  an  avenging  God  in  front 
of  her  and  a  ravenous  Devil  behind  her.  She  omitted  no 
part  of  the  prayers  she  had  been  taught,  but  what  a  relief 
it  was  to  get  up  from  her  knees  and  look  around  the 
room.  Then,  however,  her  nightgown  had  to  be  put  on 
before  the  other  clothes  were  taken  off.  Stockings  and 
shoes  were  removed  under  the  shelter  of  a  petticoat 
thrown  over  her  feet,  which  were  quickly  drawn  into  bed. 
Then  came  the  horrible  moment  of  blowing  out  the  light. 
The  bedclothes  were  held  up  in  both  hands,  in  readiness 
for  a  plunge,  then  a  puff  of  breath,  darkness,  and  the 
curly  head  and  the  wildly  beating  heart  were  down,  down, 
hidden  under  a  smothering  weight  of  blankets. 


In  the  intervals  of  school  adventures  Isabel  learned  to 
write,  and  began  the  study  of  a  fascinating  fat  book  in 
a  black  cover — Peter  Parley's  Universal  History.  At 
home  she  learned  to  make  her  own  bed,  and  had  an  irk- 
some nightly  task  of  sewing.  On  Saturdays  and  Sun- 
days she  would  sit  long  at  a  window  looking  toward  the 
south  and  wonder  what  she  would  find  if  she  could  ever 
get  to  the  top  of  the  opposite  hill  and  look  over.  The 
railway  train  that  came  and  went  twice  a  day  along  that 
hill,  zigzagging  its  way  up  or  down,  fascinated  her  and 
she  longed  to  be  a  passenger  on  it.  Very  often,  when 
Father  was  out  of  the  house  and  Aunt  Eliza  safely  busy 
downstairs,  she  would  steal  up  to  Father's  bedroom  and 
look  at  the  portrait  of  her  mother.  It  was  a  small  por- 
trait, well  painted,  of  a  lovely  girl  with  golden  brown  hair 
and  deep  blue  eyes.  Those  eyes  met  Isabel's  and  held 
them,  until  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  mother  really  must 
be  looking  through  them.  Yet  the  thought  did  not  alarm 
her — comforted  her,  rather.  Any  slight  noise  downstairs 
would  make  her  hurry  guiltily  away  with  a  palpitating 
heart. 

Time  moves  slowly  when  it  is  all  before  one.  It  was 
all  very  well  to  get  to  be  eight  years  old,  but  the  grown 
people  were  less  impressed  than  one  had  expected,  and 
it  now  seemed  to  Isabel  as  if  she  never  would  be  nine. 
However,  the  intervening  winter  wore  away,  like  its 
predecessors,  and  with  the  long,  bright  days  of  early 
summer  one  became  more  contented.  In  those  days  the 
children  brought  flowers  for  the  teacher's  desk,  lilacs  and 
the  little  early  roses.  The  strange,  red-brown  blossoms  of 
"shrub"  were  crushed  in  warm  little  hands  to  bring  out 
the  odor,  and  bunches  of  pansies  were  pinned  on  little 

29 


30  Isabel  Stirling 

frocks.  With  the  daily  offering  of  flowers  there  was  a 
better  relation  between  pupils  and  teacher ;  with  the  open 
windows  there  was  better  air  to  breathe.  For  the  mo- 
ment, peace  brooded  over  the  Primary  Department. 

Over  on  the  boys'  side  of  the  room  sat  Richard;  and 
if  you  were  a  little  girl  who  didn't  like  boys,  he  was 
just  the  boy  you  would  like,  so  gentle  was  he,  and  so 
clean.  A  mother's  darling,  evidently,  was  little  Richard, 
with  his  fair,  curly  hair,  his  pale  blue  eyes  and  his  im- 
maculate clothes.  Very  fresh  and  dainty  he  looked  when 
he  came  in  of  a  morning,  with  his  wide  white  dimity 
collar  tied  with  a  cord  and  tassels  and  the  corner  of  a 
clean  handkerchief  sticking  out  of  his  side-pocket.  Nor 
was  he  entirely  dependent  on  his  clothes  for  distinction. 
The  other  boys  may  have  dubbed  him  "girl-boy,"  but  not 
one  of  them  could  approach  his  precocious  gift  of  decla- 
mation. It  was  one  of  the  school  treats  to  hear  him  recite 
"The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck"  and  other  time- 
worn  favorites. 

Richard  had  always  cast  friendly  looks  across  the  room 
at  Isabel  and  lately  she  had  returned  his  glances  so  kindly 
that  one  rainy  day  when  the  children  had  to  stay  in  the 
house  at  recess  he  ventured  to  approach  her  as  she  sat 
on  one  of  the  recitation  benches,  cutting  out  strings  of 
paper  dolls  with  her  little  scissors.  He  sat  down  beside 
her  and  offered  her  a  transparent  slate  with  a  picture 
fastened  underneath  and  a  pencil  hanging  by  a  string. 
Isabel  drew  the  picture  on  the  slate,  Richard  sitting  by 
her  side,  and  then  offered  to  give  him  back  the  slate. 

"It  is  for  you  to  keep,"  said  he,  blushing. 

"Will  your  mother  let  you?"  asked  Isabel. 

"My  mother  don't  care,"  he  replied. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Isabel  politely,  and  put  it  in  her 
desk  among  her  treasures. 

As  soon  as  school  had  begun  again  a  little  note  was 
passed  to  her.  It  was  short  and  to  the  point. — "Dear 
Isabel.  Richard  is  your  beau.  Emily."  Isabel  blushed 
furiously  and  scorned  to  reply. 

Every  day  after  that,  Richard  used  to  bring  some 


Isabel  Stirling  31 

offering;  frequently  one  of  his  cherished  toys,  at  other 
times  a  nosegay,  or  a  cluster  of  cherries,  their  stems  fas- 
tened together  with  a  blade  of  grass.  Isabel  smiled  her 
thanks  across  the  room  when  she  found  them  on  her  desk, 
but  there  were  whole  days  when  they  did  not  exchange 
a  word;  only  when  he  was  called  upon  to  recite  his 
"pieces"  she  would  sit  up  very  straight  and  pink-cheeked, 
feeling  a  just  pride  in  the  performance. 

The  affair  was  a  godsend  to  the  writers  of  notes,  who 
were  apt  to  be  hard  put  to  it  for  something  to  say;  and 
whatever  was  done  or  left  undone,  the  notes  must  be 
written.  Each  desk  held  a  store  of  small  stationery. 
If  you  were  lucky  in  the  matter  of  spending-money,  you 
bought  it ;  pale  pink  or  blue  paper,  the  tops  of  the  sheets 
and  the  flaps  of  the  envelopes  decorated  with  some  device 
of  flowers;  otherwise  you  made  it  out  of  white  paper, 
with  homemade  paste  to  fasten  the  envelopes  in  place; 
and  that  child  was  poor  indeed  who  had  not  a  box  of 
fanciful  seals  ready  to  affix.  Isabel  made  her  own  sta- 
tionery, but  in  compensation  she  possessed  a  portfolio 
which  was  the  pride  of  her  heart  and  the  envy  of  the 
other  girls.  It  had  been  given  her  by  one  of  the  ladies 
who  came  so  often  to  see  her  Father.  Every  morning 
she  smuggled  it  out  of  the  house  (being  well  aware  that 
Aunt  Eliza  would  forbid  her  taking  it  to  school)  and 
smuggled  it  in  again  when  she  went  home  in  the  after- 
noon. Her  correspondence  now  became  very  voluminous. 
Not  only  Emily,  but  Helen  and  Katie  and  even  quiet 
Jessie  had  their  say  about  her  beau,  while  Lily  nudged 
and  whispered  her  comments.  In  fact,  Lily,  more  than 
any  of  the  others,  was  interested,  for  she  had  begun,  some 
time  ago,  to  cast  sidelong  glances  across  the  room  and 
most  of  the  notes  which  she  wrote  were  slipped  slyly  into 
some  little  boy's  hand.  Owing  to  this  preoccupation,  she 
had  lost  interest  in  mischief  and  was  so  demure  that  Miss 
Atkins  was  relying  on  her  to  have  a  good  influence  on 
her  seatmate. 

Isabel  found  this  new  excitement  an  agreeable  experi- 
ence until  the  fatal  Friday  afternoon  when  Richard  spoke 


32  Isabel  Stirling 

his  piece  in  the  General  Meeting-Room.  Ordinarily  the 
Primary  children  were  not  expected  to  take  part  in  these 
weekly  performances,  which  were  of  a  more  or  less  festive 
character,  but  sat  meekly  on  the  front  seats,  the  little 
girls'  white-stockinged  legs  hanging  down  in  full  view  of 
the  assembled  school.  Isabel,  pulling  down  her  frock  in 
a  more  or  less  futile  attempt  to  hide  the  holes  which 
usually  appeared  by  that  time  of  day,  thought  it  would 
be  much  better  to  make  the  big  girls,  with  their  long 
dresses,  sit  in  front.  They  however,  clung  to  their  privi- 
leges and  were  ranged  against  the  wall  on  the  raised  seats. 
The  boys  and  girls'  seats  were  separated  by  the  platform 
on  one  side  of  the  room  and  the  Principal's  pulpit  on 
the  opposite  side. 

To  the  small  children  these  seemed  stately  functions, 
with  the  declamations  and  "compositions,"  interlarded 
with  solos  and  duets  on  the  jingling  old  piano,  and  it  was 
a  red-letter  day  for  the  Primary  Department  when  Rich- 
ard, whose  fame  had  reached  higher  quarters,  was  chosen 
to  speak  a  piece  on  that  stage.  To  Isabel  it  promised  to 
be  a  proud  occasion.  When  the  little  boy,  dressed  in  his 
best,  with  a  particularly  broad  and  white  collar,  mounted 
the  steps  and  made  his  bows  to  right  and  left  she  was 
palpitating  with  happy  excitement ;  but  when  Lily  on  one 
side  and  Emily  on  the  other,  nudged  her  in  the  most  open 
manner,  pride  began  to  give  way  to  painful  embarrass- 
ment. 

"The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck,"  began  Richard 
in  his  high,  childish  voice.  To  the  older  people  he  looked 
a  mere  baby  as  he  stood  there,  but  to  the  children  of  the 
Primary  he  was  Isabel's  beau.  Other  little  girls  leaned 
forward  and  smiled  at  her  across  their  neighbors.  Even 
the  older  girls,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  began  to  take  notice, 
and  Miss  Atkins  certainly  smiled.  It  seemed  to  Isabel 
that  the  whole  room  was  looking  at  her.  She  was  all  one 
blaze  of  agonized  shame — and  nowhere  to  hide  her  face ! 
Nothing  to  do  but  sit  with  flaming  face  and  downcast 
eyes  and  helpless,  dangling  legs,  until  the  terrible  ordeal 
was  over  and  Richard  stepped  down  from  the  platform 


Isabel  Stirling  33 

amid  enthusiastic  applause.  Never,  she  felt,  could  she 
speak  to  him  again.    She  hated  him ! 

As  soon  as  the  school  was  dismissed  she  ran  frantically 
through  the  crowd,  upstairs  to  the  schoolroom,  threw  on 
her  hat,  seized  her  treasured  portfolio  and  flew  down  the 
stairs.  At  the  outside  door  she  met  Richard,  looking  for 
sympathy.  He  had  hurried,  too,  and  feeling  his  dignity 
as  a  man  (  for  had  he  not  won  his  laurels  in  fair  competi- 
tion with  other  men?)  he  intended  to  walk  home  with 
her.  Hitherto  he  had  never  gone  farther  than  the  corner. 
She  would  not  look  at  him.  Lily  and  the  other  girls 
rushed  after  her,  trying  to  detain  her,  but  she  broke  away 
from  them  fiercely  and  ran.  Through  the  gate  she  flew, 
and  up  the  street.    Richard  ran  after  her.    So  did  Lily. 

"You've  dropped  something  !"  screamed  Lily. 

Isabel  became  aware  that  her  portfolio  was  shedding 
its  contents.  She  didn't  know  what  she  had  lost.  She 
didn't  care.  She  ran  as  she  had  never  run  before  in  her 
life.  After  a  while  the  pursuing  cries  and  footsteps  died 
into  silence-  She  went  home  alone,  slunk  into  the  back 
door  and  put  her  portfolio  away.  She  never  carried  it 
to  school  again,  nor  did  she  ever  speak  to  Richard.  In 
after  years  she  could  not  remember  that  she  even  saw 
him  again.  Someone  told  her  that  he  and  his  mother 
went  away  to  live.  Perhaps  they  went  at  once.  Possibly, 
indeed,  Richard  never  came  back  to  the  Academy  after 
that  Friday  afternoon.  Her  last  recollection  of  him  was 
as  he  looked  when  she  turned  her  head — running  after 
her,  holding  something  out  to  her,  calling  her  name. 


VI 

Ten  years  old  and  advanced  to  the  big  girls'  room  in  the 
Academy  and  the  dignity  of  the  next-to-the-back  seats 
in  the  General  Meeting-Room — the  girls  in  their  teens 
still  held  those  against  the  wall.  Very  proud  now,  and 
fairly  well-behaved,  though  with  none  too  much  attention 
to  spare  for  one's  studies.  For  notes  took  up  so  much 
time ;  notes  and  Secrets,  and  a  cipher  to  make  the  secrets 
still  more  mysterious.  There  were  no  very  rigid  exami- 
nations at  that  time,  and  no  reports  sent  home  to  parents 
to  betray  one's  shortcomings.  Isabel  gave  scant  attention 
to  her  lessons,  but  she  invented  a  beautiful  cipher,  which 
she  wrote  with  perfect  ease  and  even  read  successfully. 
Of  course,  with  all  this  important  correspondence,  there 
must  be  post-offices ;  in  stone  walls,  in  trees,  in  the  ground 
itself,  with  a  square  of  turf  neatly  lifted  and  replaced, 
and  a  little  box  fitted  in  below. 

Perhaps  the  best  of  her  post-offices  was  the  one  under 
the  old  steps  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  by  the  little 
gate,  and  the  best  of  the  secrets  the  one  which  she  shared 
with  Jessie.  The  time  was  long  past  when  Isabel  awaited 
Jessie's  pleasure.  She  was  now  the  leader  and  Jessie, 
although  the  elder,  frankly  yielded  her  the  first  place.  It 
was  under  Isabel's  direction  that  the  two  corresponded 
voluminously,  under  the  names  of  Dora  Dalrymple  and 
Beatrice  Deloraine,  and  invented  the  most  surprising  ad- 
ventures, first  at  the  boarding  school  which  they  attended 
in  imagination,  and  then  as  young  ladies  launched  in  so- 
ciety. For  by  this  time  they  were  reading  romances 
whenever  they  could  get  hold  of  them.  Jessie  had  found 
barrels  in  the  attic  stuffed  with  old  magazines  and  novels 
which  she  brought  out  one  by  one  through  the  little  gate. 

34 


Isabel  Stirling  35 

They  contrived  a  special  hiding-place  for  them  under  the 
steps.  Isabel  was  thus  able  to  vary  the  mental  diet  of 
Hannah  More's  Repository  Tracts,  Charlotte  Elizabeth's 
works  and  the  memoirs  of  saintly  children  with  old  num- 
bers of  Littell's  Living  Age  and  Harper's  New  Monthly 
Magazine.  Other  girls  lent  books  from  time  to  time. 
The  whole  school  wept  over  "The  Heir  of  Redclyffe"  and 
"The  Wide,  Wide  World";  and  even  the  Sunday-school 
Library  frequently  supplied  a  romance,  religious  in  its 
tone,  but  thrilling  in  its  adventures.  Naturally,  Dora  and 
Beatrice  were  modeled  on  the  various  heroines. 

With  volumes  to  write,  one  couldn't  be  bothered  with 
a  cipher,  and  the  two  children  did  not  trouble  themselves 
about  the  chance  of  discovery.  For  her  part,  Isabel  de- 
stroyed all  the  letters  she  received,  but  one  day  Jessie 
burst  upon  her  with  the  announcement: 

"Edmund  found  some  of  our  letters  and  read  them !" 

"He  hadn't  any  business  to.  It  was  mean!"  Isabel 
flamed  with  rage.     "Did  he  come  here?" 

"No,  I  left  them  around,"  confessed  Jessie.  "But 
Isabel,  he  says " 

"There's  no  fun  in  it  any  more,"  interrupted  Isabel 
gloomily. 

"But  he  says,"  persisted  Jessie — "he  says,  why  don't  I 
write  him  as  interesting  letters  as  these?  He  says  they 
are  a  great  deal  better  than  the  ones  I  do  write."  Ed- 
mund was  a  collegian  now,  at  home  for  his  vacation. 
"You  see,"  went  on  Jessie,  "he  got  hold  of  one  of  mine 
that  I  had  just  written  and  several  of  yours,  and  he  says 
yours  are  a  great  deal  the  best.    Of  course  I  knew  that." 

Isabel  turned  away  with  an  impatient  shake  of  her 
shoulders.  She  was  pleased,  but  would  not  admit  it. 
"I'm  tired  of  that  old  secret  anyway,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  Isabel !"  cried  Jessie,  in  dismay.  "It's  the  most 
beautiful  secret." 

But  Isabel  would  not  relent.  It  was  sweet  to  be  praised, 
but  a  secret  discovered  has  lost  its  savor.  Dora  and 
Beatrice  had  had  their  day.  Perhaps  they  might  have 
had  successors  had  not  the  Revival  occurred  just  then. 


36  Isabel  Stirling 

With  its  coming  the  notes  assumed  a  religious  character. 
Little  girls  wrote  them  during  school  hours  as  freely  as 
ever,  in  defiance  of  the  rules ;  but  how  could  one  consider 
rules  when  one  was  expatiating  on  one's  religious  emo- 
tions and  asking  whether  one's  friends  had  experienced 
the  like !  There  were  some  exceptions  to  the  general  ex- 
citement. Jessie,  calm  and  sweet  as  ever,  felt  no  need  of 
a  stimulant  for  religious  emotions;  and  the  Episcopal 
girls  were  out  of  it  and  went  their  way  quietly,  perhaps 
missing  the  secrets,  in  which  they  had  been  as  enthusiastic 
as  the  rest.  But  there  were  not  many  of  them  in  the 
Academy.  Most  of  them  attended  Miss  Gray's  private 
school ;  and  the  Episcopal  church  was  small  in  the  village 
of  Ptolemy. 

Father  and  the  other  ministers  had  been  trying  to  have 
a  Revival  ever  since  the  latter  part  of  the  winter,  but  all 
the  preaching  and  the  extra  prayer  meetings  did  not,  for 
a  long  time,  seem  to  accomplish  much.  Then  in  the  spring 
came  the  comet,  with  its  fiery  tail,  which  many  people 
thought  would  set  the  world  on  fire,  and  at  the  same  time 
there  were  prophecies  of  a  "cholera  summer."  Father 
did  not  trouble  himself  about  the  comet,  but  concerning 
the  cholera  he  had  more  to  say,  warning  his  people,  in 
church  and  Sunday-school,  that  before  the  leaves  turned 
red  in  the  fall,  death  would  claim  many  of  them. 

Some  of  the  children,  intent  on  their  own  affairs,  did 
not  even  hear  the  awful  warning ;  some  were  too  dull  to 
be  much  affected,  but  some  were  badly  frightened,  and 
of  these  last  was  Isabel.  Death  again  assumed  the  promi- 
nence in  her  thoughts  which  it  had  lately  lost  amid  the 
varied  interests  of  her  school  life.  Again  she  went  to 
bed  night  after  night  with  a  bad  headache  and  had  terri- 
fying dreams.  Meantime,  the  Revival  was  actually  begin- 
ning. Prayer  meetings  were  held,  morning,  noon  and 
night,  in  the  various  churches.  The  excitement  penetrated 
to  the  schoolroom,  with  the  result  of  the  aforesaid  notes. 
Father,  who  thought  that  it  was  high  time  for  Isabel  to 
take  religion  seriously — how  seriously  she  did  take  it,  he 
little  knew — would  have  had  her  accompany  Aunt  Eliza 


Isabel  Stirling  37 

to  the  evening  as  well  as  the  early  morning  prayer  meet- 
ings, but  the  child  was  so  pale  and  languid  that  the  doctor 
had  been  called  in  by  her  aunt,  and  his  emphatic  command 
was  that  she  should  go  to  bed  early  and  be  kept  as  far 
as  possible  from  undue  excitement.  Her  nervous  tem- 
perament, he  said,  was  highly  strung  and  would  not  bear 
tampering  with. 

But  when  Lily  came  to  school  one  morning  and  said: 
"You  just  ought  to  have  been  at  prayer  meeting  last  night. 
It  was  perfectly  lovely.  I  cried  three  handkerchiefs  sop- 
ping wet,"  Isabel,  who  had  been  disappointed  at  finding 
the  morning  meetings  lacking  in  thrill,  felt  that  she  could 
not  stay  away  from  anything  so  exciting  as  these  evening 
services. 

In  spite  of  the  doctor,  her  request  to  be  allowed  to  at- 
tend the  meeting  that  evening  met  with  an  instant  consent. 
She  had  had  the  wit  to  make  it  in  her  father's  presence. 
Aunt  Eliza  might  have  thought  it  necessary  to  obey  the 
doctor,  but  to  the  minister  the  soul  was  of  more  moment 
than  the  perishing  body.  He  would  do  his  duty  by  the 
child,  with  whose  physical  condition,  when  all  was  said, 
he  never  greatly  concerned  himself.  But  to  the  child  the 
experience  was  disappointing.  She  did  not  cry  at  all — 
did  not  have  the  slightest  impulse  to  do  so;  and  the  un- 
couthness  of  some  of  the  worthy  brethren  repelled  her 
fastidiousness  just  as  much  in  the  evening  as  in  the  morn- 
ing. This  coldness  of  hers  made  her  heart  very  heavy. 
She  feared  more  than  ever  that  she  was  not  one  of  the 
Elect;  for  she  had  been  instructed  in  the  Presbyterian 
doctrine,  having  had  to  recite  the  Shorter  Catechism  to 
Aunt  Eliza  of  a  Sunday  afternoon.  To  be  sure,  emotions 
and  handkerchiefs  cried  sopping  wet  were  quite  useless  if 
you  were  predestined  to  go  to  Hell  anyway,  but  she  would 
have  welcomed  the  emotions  partly  on  their  own  account 
and  partly  as  a  possible  sign  that  she  was  one  of  the 
Chosen.  For  hadn't  Father  preached  a  sermon  showing 
how  they  might  know  when  they  were,  as  the  Catechism 
said,  "effectually  called"  ?  She  cried  into  her  pillow  that 
night  and  her  sleep  was  haunted  by  visions  of  the  ceme- 


38  Isabel  Stirling 

tery  on  the  hill,  with  its  white  tombstones.  The  skeleton 
had  by  this  time  disappeared  from  the  closet,  but  terrors 
equally  hard  to  bear  had  succeeded  him. 

It  was  only  the  next  day  that  Lily  said  to  her:  "There's 
an  Inquiry  meeting  after  school  at  the  Methodist  church. 
Let's  go." 

"What  is  an  Inquiry  meeting?"  asked  Isabel. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Lily,  "but  let's  go  anyway."    - 

Discipline  was  relaxed  in  those  days  and  Aunt  Eliza 
was  not  always  on  the  watch  to  see  that  she  came  home 
on  the  minute,  so  she  consented.  Emily  was  drawn  in 
and  the  three  ran  across  the  Park — as  Ptolemy  called  its 
village  green — to  the  Methodist  church. 

"It's  in  the  Sunday-school  room,"  said  Lily,  so  they 
went  down  some  steps  to  the  basement  door.  Once  in- 
side, they  would  have  been  glad  to  slink  out  again,  for 
the  only  occupant  of  the  room  was  the  minister.  He  sat 
there,  waiting  for  Inquirers,  and  looked  up  in  some  sur- 
prise as  the  three  children  entered.  However,  it  was  not 
altogether  outside  of  his  experience  that  babes  should 
seek  salvation. 

"Have  you  come  to  see  me?"  he  asked,  turning  kind 
eyes  on  them. 

Isabel  and  Emily  pushed  Lily  forward.  As  the  leader 
of  the  expedition,  she  was  expected  to  be  its  spokesman. 

"We've  come  to  the  meeting,"  quavered  Lily,  turning 
dove's  eyes  on  him. 

"Will  you  come  and  take  these  seats?"  said  the  min- 
ister, indicating  three  chairs  in  front  of  him. 

He  was  a  young  man  with  an  uncultivated  voice,  a 
shaven  upper  lip  and  a  beard  on  his  chin.  He  was  new 
to  the  place  and  unacquainted  as  yet,  outside  of  his  own 
flock  and  the  little  band  of  ministers.  A  plain  man  of  the 
people,  taking  his  calling  with  serious  enthusiasm,  there 
was  nevertheless  a  half -subdued  gleam  of  humor  in  his 
eyes,  and  in  his  presence  something  sympathetic  and  at- 
tractive. With  him,  religion  was  not  an  awful  and  re- 
mote affair,  but  something  which  one  could  speak  of  with 
affectionate  familiarity. 


Isabel  Stirling  39 

"Well  now,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  "what  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

"We  have  come  to  the  meeting,"  repeated  Lily. 

"Well,  this  is  the  meeting." 

"Oh!"  said  Lily,  and  her  two  companions  squirmed 
uneasily. 

"I  don't  believe  you  quite  understand  about  it,"  he  con- 
tinued. "I  am  here  to  meet  those  who  are  anxious  to 
learn  to  know  our  Lord,  and  to  help  them  if  I  can.  Now, 
perhaps  I  can  help  you  children  a  little." 

Much  embarrassment  on  the  three  chairs.  Lily  seemed 
to  have  nothing  more  to  say.  Emily  was  equally  silent. 
Isabel  felt  that  good  manners  required  some  reply.  She 
longed  to  run  away,  but  instead,  she  replied  politely: 

"We'd  be  very  much  obliged." 

Then,  a  look  into  his  eyes  gave  her  a  startling  sense 
of  sympathy  and  understanding.  Grown  people  did  not 
usually  look  at  her  like  that.  She  straightened  up  in  her 
chair. 

"How  can  you  be  converted  if  you  want  to  and  can't?" 
she  asked  in  quite  a  different  tone. 

The  young  man  gazed  at  her  thoughtfully  for  a  mo- 
ment before  he  answered.  "Don't  you  think  you  are 
thinking  too  much  about  the  word  'conversion'  ?"  he  said 
at  last.  "If  you  love  God — as  I'm  sure  you  must — all  the 
rest  comes  naturally." 

"But  that's  just  it,"  said  Isabel.  "But  what  if  you 
don't  love  Him?  And  how  can  you,  if  you  don't? 
Doesn't  it  mean  that  you're  not  one  of  the  Elect  and 
nothing's  of  any  use  ?" 

"My  dear  child !"  exclaimed  the  minister. 

But  Isabel  went  on.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she 
was  speaking  out  her  inmost  thoughts.  Lily  and  Emily, 
staring  in  astonishment,  were  forgotten,  and  she  was 
alone  with  the  man  who  seemed  to  draw  out  the  secrets 
of  her  soul. 

"When  I  was  little,"  she  said,  "I  thought  that  all  grown 
people  loved  God  and  that  if  I  could  only  live  to  grow 
up  I'd  be  saved,  but  now,  of  course,  I  know  better.    I 


40  Isabel  Stirling 

don't  love  Him  now  and  perhaps  I  sha  n't  when  I  am 
grown  up." 

The  minister  gazed  compassionately  at  the  distressed 
childish  face.  "You  are  too  young  to  understand  these 
things,"  he  said.  "They  hide  God  from  you.  Just  think 
of  Him  as  your  Father.  Don't  be  afraid  of  Him.  You 
have  a  father,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Isabel. 

"And  a  mother?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Then  you  must  love  your  father  all  the  more,"  he 
said  gently. 

"Fathers — "  began  Isabel,  and  stopped. 

"Well?"  said  the  minister  encouragingly. 

"Fathers — "  she  began  again.  The  tears  were  coming: 
now  and  she  struggled  against  them. 

The  minister  waited,  puzzled,  but  sympathetic. 

"That  doesn't  help !"  she  burst  out  desperately.  "You're 
afraid  of  fathers!" 

In  vain  the  minister  talked.  Isabel  cried — all  three 
little  girls  cried;  the  other  two  with  a  pleasant  sense  of 
excitement  and  the  luxury  of  feelings  gently  stirred,  but 
Isabel  with  an  agonized,  though  inarticulate  protest 
against  the  world  and  its  Maker.  When  the  minister 
finally  dismissed  them  he  had  the  curiosity  to  ask  the 
name  of  this  unusual  child. 

"Isabel  Stirling,"  she  replied  from  behind  the  handker- 
chief with  which  she  was  wiping  away  a  few  last  tears. 

"Her  father  is  the  Presbyterian  minister,"  volunteered 
Emily  officiously. 

The  young  minister  gazed  thoughtfully  after  the  chil- 
dren as  they  filed  out  of  the  room.  "My  reverend 
brother  doesn't  know  how  to  bring  up  a  child,"  he  said 
to  himself,  and  added  pitifully — "Poor  little  soul!" 


VII 

At  eleven  years  old  one  is  no  longer  quite  so  indifferent 
to  the  affairs  of  the  grown-ups.  One  regards  with  a 
more  judicial  discrimination  the  various  persons  who 
come  to  the  house.  One  notices,  for  instance,  that  Miss 
Lydia  Baird  is  sickeningly  sweet  in  her  manner  to  Father ; 
and  one  has  learned  what  Aunt  Eliza  meant  when  she 
talked  about  setting  a  cap. 

One  has  grown  a  trifle  less  afraid  of  Father — just  a 
trifle,  but  enough  to  pluck  up  courage  to  say:  "Father, 
why  is  dancing  wicked?" 

Father  frowns.  He  always  nas  a  great  deal  to  say 
about  the  wickedness  of  dancing,  but  to  Isabel,  sitting 
drearily  on  a  bench  in  the  General  Meeting-Room  at  re- 
cess and  watching  the  other  girls  as  they  spin  around  the 
room  to  the  music  of  the  old  piano,  it  seems  an  amusement 
as  harmless  as  it  is  enchanting.  Only  she  doesn't  know 
how ;  and  no  one  offers  to  teach  her  because  they  all  know 
how  Father  preaches  against  dancing.  It  is  autumn  now 
and  the  Revival  is  long  past;  and  Father  is  displeased 
because  it  turned  out  that  after  all  no  results  followed 
Isabel's  request  to  be  allowed  to  attend  the  evening 
meetings. 

As  to  the  dancing,  he  could  not  enter  into  an  exposition 
of  his  reasons  for  condemning  it,  the  chief  of  them  being 
unfit  for  a  child  to  hear.  In  conversation  with  adults 
(  he  called  a  spade  a  spade  and  told  them  without  circumlo- 
cution that  he  considered  it  destructive  to  purity  of  mind. 
To  the  Reverend  William  Stirling  there  were,  to  be  sure, 
two  sides  to  every  question:  his  side,  which  was  the 
Lord's  side,  and  the  other  side,  which  was  the  Devil's. 
He  told  Isabel  briefly  that  dancing  was  of  the  Devil  and 
that  she  must  take  his  word  for  it. 

"But  I  don't  see "  she  began. 

41 


42  Isabel  Stirling 

"You  don't  need  to  see.  You  are  a  child  and  must 
accept  the  wisdom  of  those  older  than  yourself.  I  want 
you  to  promise  me  now  that  you  will  never  dance  as  long 
as  you  live." 

Isabel  found  the  courage  to  argue.  "I  don't  see  why 
it's  wickeder  for  the  girls  at  school  to  dance  than  to  play 
tag." 

But  that,  Father  told  her,  was  the  way  Satan  began. 
He  sternly  required  the  promise  of  her  and  she,  under 
the  stress  of  circumstance,  gave  it;  to  her  lasting  regret. 
For  she  had  a  sense  of  honor  which  forbade  her  breaking 
her  word.  Yet  it  had  its  uses;  not,  it  is  true,  such  as  her 
father  imagined.  It  prevented  her  from  ever  binding 
herself  to  him  again  and  gave  her  courage  to  resist  cer- 
tain demands  of  his  in  later  years. 

Time  still  passed  slowly.  Isabel  was  now  growing  rap- 
idly. Aunt  Eliza  couldn't  let  her  dresses  down  fast 
enough,  and  her  hands  and  feet  seemed  several  sizes  too 
large  for  her.  As  the  days  grew  darker  and  colder  she 
was  often  ailing.  The  headaches,  which  were  more  fre- 
quent than  ever,  served  her  one  good  turn,  for  the  doctor, 
asking  how  she  spent  her  time,  forbade  the  hateful  daily 
task  of  sewing  which  Aunt  Eliza's  sense  of  duty  imposed 
on  her.  She  was  to  be  kept  out  of  doors  when  the  weather 
permitted,  said  the  doctor,  and  was  to  be  allowed  all  pos- 
sible diversion.  So  it  happened  that  she  spent  more  time 
at  the  Giffords's  than  had  ever  before  been  permitted. 
Mrs.  Gifford  made  her  feel  that  she  was  a  child  of  the 
house,  and  knew  just  when  to  cosset  her  and  when  to  let 
her  alone.  She  took  many  a  nap,  tucked  up  on  the  big 
sofa  in  the  cheerful  sitting-room,  waking  to  see  Mrs. 
Gifford  sitting  against  the  light  with  her  sewing,  or  Jes- 
sie, returned  from  school,  in  the  low  chair  by  the  fire. 
It  was  there  that  she  confided  to  Jessie  her  apprehensions 
with  regard  to  Miss  Baird. 

"People  do  talk,"  admitted  Jessie.  Then  she  giggled. 
"Father  says  it's  been  a  suit  of  duranpe,  whatever  that 
may  be,  but  that  Lydia  is  going  to  win  out.  They  didn't 
think  I  heard." 


Isabel  Stirling  43 

"She  comes  all  the  time,"  said  Isabel  gloomily.  "It's 
'my  sweet  little  Isabel/  and  'oh,  Miss  Eliza,  what  a  bee-u- 
tiful  housekeeper  you  are/  every  other  minute." 

"In  that  molasses  voice,"  interpolated  Jessie. 

"Molasses  and  vinegar." 

"Like  the  stuff  they  give  us  when  we  have  colds " 

"And  the  way  she  looks  at  Father — and  asks  his  ad- 
vice about  every  little  thing !  Father  doesn't  know  about 
little  things  anyway." 

"Do  you  suppose  it  really  will  happen?"  asked  Jessie, 
in  a  tone  which  was  almost  awestruck. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.    How  can  it?    Jessie!" 

"Yes?" 

"I  wouldn't  mind  having  a  stepmother  if  she  was  the 
right  kind.  It  might  be — almost — like  having  a  mother. 
But  oh,  Miss  Lydia!" 

But  it  very  soon  became  evident  that  it  was  going  to 
be  no  other.  Miss  Lydia  told  each  of  her  acquaintances 
separately,  saying  that  they  were  not  going  to  make  any 
public  announcement  of  it  just  yet;  and  she  carried  her 
embroidery  with  her  whenever  she  went  to  spend  an 
hour  with  a  friend.  William  Stirling,  as  in  duty  bound, 
mentioned  the  matter  to  his  sister.  Eliza's  disapproval 
of  his  choice  was  scarcely  veiled. 

"It's  quite  right  for  you  to  be  married,"  she  said.  "I've 
always  wondered  how  you've  happened  to  wait  so  long. 
And  of  course  you  must  suit  yourself — though  it  doesn't 
always  seem  to  be  the  case  that  a  man  does  dispose  of 
himself.     I  hope  you'll  be  happy." 

William  tried  to  tell  her  something  of  his  appreciation 
of  her  services  to  him.  She  was  pleased,  but  cut  him 
short.  "Of  course  I  was  bound  to  do  what  I  could,"  she 
said.  "As  the  wedding  is  to  be  in  June  I'll  go  away  for 
a  vacation  for  the  summer  and  get  a  place  to  teach  in 
the  fall.  No — thank  you  for  saying  that  I  needn't  be 
in  a  hurry,  but  that  will  be  best.  And  you  know  I  do 
prefer  teaching  to  housekeeping." 

All  of  which  was  quite  in  line  with  Lydia's  plans.  Dear 
Eliza  was  so  independent.     She  thought  independence 


44  Isabel  Stirling 

such  a  noble  thing,  so  much  finer  than  to  be  a  clinging 
creature  like  herself.  All  she  could  do  in  life  was  just  to 
try  to  make  the  people  around  her  a  little  happier. 

Meantime,  Eliza  made  her  arrangements.  She  was 
really  a  good  teacher  of  a  certain  type,  not  sympathetic, 
but  efficient  in  the  matter  of  mathematics.  Luckily,  her 
successor  in  Miss  Pryor's  school  was  going  to  be  married 
in  the  summer  and  she  was  able  to  get  back  her  old  place. 
It  would  be  like  going  home.  Except  that  she  hated  to 
see  William  made  a  fool  of,  and  was  a  little  concerned 
as  to  how  Lydia  and  Isabel  would  get  on,  she  was  un- 
feignedly  glad  to  give  up  the  duties  which  she  had  dis- 
charged so  conscientiously  and  taken  so  seriously. 

But  all  this  time,  no  one  told  Isabel  of  the  changes  in 
store.  Aunt  Eliza  considered  that  to  be  Father's  affair, 
and  Father,  who  found  himself  suffering  from  a  certain 
shamefacedness  when  it  came  to  speaking  to  his  child  of 
his  approaching  marriage,  thought  that  there  was  time 
enough  and  put  it  off ;  for  even  the  godly  parson  who  is 
ready  to  go  to  the  stake  for  a  Cause,  will  defer  the  small 
duty  which  he  finds  embarrassing.  Of  course,  by  this 
time  Isabel  knew  all  about  it,  but  had  her  own  idea  of 
what  was  due  to  her. 

"Don't  you  suppose  anyone  will  ever  tell  me  ?"  she  said 
to  Jessie.  "Do  you  suppose  she'll  just  come,  and  that 
will  be  all?" 

The  winter  slipped  away,  Miss  Lydia  finished  her  em- 
broidery and  was  closeted  with  her  dressmaker,  who  spent 
weeks  in  an  upper  room  of  the  house  of  the  sister  with 
whom  Lydia  lived.  Aunt  Eliza  was  putting  the  parson- 
age through  a  radical  process  of  cleaning  and  renovating, 
beginning  with  the  attic,  which  was  thoroughly  over- 
hauled. Some  of  its  contents  were  destroyed,  some  were 
given  away,  and  some  packed  up  to  accompany  Eliza  in 
her  flitting.  The  slender  residue  was  stored  away  again 
under  the  eaves.  One  day  she  called  Isabel  up  there  and, 
showing  her  an  old  trunk,  gave  her  a  key. 

"There  are  some  things  of  your  mother's,"  she  said. 


Isabel  Stirling  45 

"They  belong  to  you.  You  had  better  keep  the  trunk 
locked.    One  never  knows." 

Isabel  accepted  the  key  with  awed  excitement  and  put 
it  away  in  a  corner  of  her  top  bureau  drawer.  She  had 
no  wish  to  open  the  trunk  just  then.  She  was  still  more 
excited  when,  on  coming  in  one  day  she  found  her 
mother's  portrait  hanging  on  the  wall  of  her  bedroom. 
She  flew  to  her  aunt. 

"The  portrait  I"  she  exclaimed  breathlessly.  "Am  I  to 
have  the  portrait?" 

"Yes,"  said  Aunt  Eliza.  "I  spoke  to  your  father  and 
he  consented.    It  is  much  more  suitable." 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Isabel  flung  her  arms 
about  her  aunt's  neck.  "Oh!"  she  cried.  "Thank  you!" 
She  rushed  away  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  leaving 
Aunt  Eliza  with  a  strange  and  painful  softening  of  the 
heart.  She  found  herself  wishing  that  she  did  not  have 
to  leave  the  child. 

Isabel  had  one  pang  of  jealous  pain  that  Father  should 
be  willing  to  part  with  the  portrait,  but  that  was  obliter- 
ated by  her  joy  at  having  it  for  her  own,  to  live  with. 
She  worshiped  it,  standing  before  it  for  long  moments, 
even  kneeling  before  it  when  she  said  her  prayers.  Now 
when  all  these  preparations  were  being  made  for  the  new 
wife,  the  house  seemed  permeated  for  Isabel  with  the 
presence  of  the  young  mother  who  had  never  lived  there. 
For  William  Stirling's  married  life  had  been  in  another 
town,  the  place  of  his  first  pastorate,  before  he  had  been 
called  back  to  his  native  place. 

In  all  this  putting  in  order  there  was,  it  seemed,  one 
task  for  him.  One  day  in  March  he  packed  a  valise. 
Isabel  overheard  Aunt  Eliza  say  to  him: 

"You  think  it  is  best — now  ?" 

"I  promised,"  he  replied.  "I  should  have  done  it  long 
ago,  but " 

"I  know,"  replied  his  sister.    "Those  things  are  hard." 

He  went  away,  and  no  one  told  Isabel  where  he  was 
going.  She,  occupied  with  the  portrait,  did  not  concern 
herself  about  the  matter.    Within  two  days  he  was  back 


46  Isabel  Stirling 

again.  Isabel  had  been  told  by  her  aunt  to  go  and  have 
tea  with  Jessie,  but  for  once,  came  back  sooner  than  she 
was  expected.  She  dismissed  at  the  gate  the  maid  who 
had  been  sent  to  escort  her  home  and  hurried  up  to  the 
house  in  the  dark. 

There  was  a  wagon  in  the  driveway  and  the  front  door 
stood  wide  open.  The  light  from  the  hall  streamed  out, 
showing  Father  standing  there,  superintending  the  lifting 
of  a  long  wooden  box  from  the  wagon.  Isabel  noticed 
that  he  had  no  hat  on,  though  he  was  holding  it  in  his 
hand  and  the  air  was  raw.  He  was  directing  the  men  to 
handle  the  box  carefully. 

"Why,  what — "  began  Isabel. 

He  turned  at  her  voice.  "Go  into  the  house!"  he 
ordered,  not  angrily,  but  imperatively. 

She  went  in  at  once.  Aunt  Eliza  was  standing  in  the 
sitting-room  and  her  face  wore  a  strangely  grave  ex- 
pression, quite  different  from  her  usual  look  of  worry  or 
preoccupation. 

"Aunt  Eliza,  what  has  come?,,  Isabel  was  bursting 
with  curiosity.  "Father  is  out  there  and  it  is  a  long  box, 
on  a  wagon." 

"Don't  ask  questions,  Isabel,"  said  her  aunt.  In  her 
voice  as  well  as  in  her  face  there  was  that  unusual 
solemnity,  almost,  Isabel  thought,  as  though  she  were  in 
church. 

It  was  oppressive,  all  this  solemnity.  What  in  the 
world  could  be  the  matter  ?  She  ran  upstairs  and  watched 
from  the  upper  hall,  hanging  over  the  banister,  unseen 
by  those  below.  The  men  carried  the  box  into  Father's 
study,  but  they  didn't  stop  there.  She  could  hear  their 
heavy  footsteps  as  they  went  on  into  the  room  adjoining ; 
that  room  of  distressful  associations.  There  they  put 
their  burden  down,  and  when  they  had  come  out  she 
heard  Father  shut  the  door  of  the  other  room  and  lock  it. 
The  lock  did  not  work  easily. 

Of  course,  it  was  useless  to  ask  questions,  but  a  child 
with  eyes  and  ears  sharpened  by  curiosity  can  find  out 
much  without  need  of  questions.    Before  she  went  to  bed 


Isabel  Stirling  47 

that  night  the  mystery  was  solved  for  Isabel.  Did  the 
men  let  fall  a  remark  to  Ann,  the  cook,  on  their  way  out  ? 
Did  Father  and  Aunt  Eliza  exchange  a  few  words  when 
they  thought  she  could  not  hear  ?  She  never  remembered 
how  it  was  that  she  found  out,  but  she  was  certain.  Her 
mother's  body  was  in  the  house.  In  those  days  there 
was  no  such  thing  as  a  mortuary  chapel  in  Ptolemy. 

The  awe  which  held  her  soul  at  first  was  soon  swal- 
lowed up  in  horror.  The  children  of  those  days  did  not 
lack  realistic  descriptions  of  the  ravages  of  death.  The 
more  she  tried  not  to  think  of  it,  the  more  the  horror 
grew.  She  went  to  her  room  before  her  usual  bedtime 
and  there,  her  mother's  eyes,  looking  at  her  out  of  the 
portrait,  comforted  her  a  little;  but  when  she  had  got 
into  bed  she  put  her  head  under  the  blankets.    .    .    . 

It  was  impossible  to  go  to  sleep.  Finally  she  heard 
Aunt  Eliza  come  upstairs  and  then,  after  what  seemed  a 
long  time,  Father  came  up  and  shut  himself  in  his  room. 

It  had  not  occurred  to  her  that  Father  would  come  up 
at  all  that  night.  She  could  remember  that  when  Grandma 
died  some  of  their  friends  came  and  stayed  downstairs 
every  night  until  the  funeral;  and  she  knew  it  to  be  the 
custom.  Poor  Mother !  Here  in  the  house  with  them  all 
and  everybody  going  to  bed  as  usual.  The  ghastly  visions 
gave  place  to  a  passion  of  love  and  pity,  mingled  with 
jealous  indignation  at  Father's  heartlessness.  She  threw 
off  the  blankets  and  sat  up  in  bed.  Since  she  was  the 
only  one  to  care.    .    .    . 

She  waited  until  she  heard  Aunt  Eliza's  deep  breathing. 
As  for  Father,  she  felt  safe  as  long  as  his  door  was  shut. 
Feeling  for  the  matches  and  lighting  the  candle,  she 
slipped  on  her  little  dressing  gown  and,  barefooted  lest 
she  make  a  noise,  started  down  the  stairs.  Which  step 
was  it  that  always  creaked?  One  must  go  carefully 
there.  Softly  she  went,  and  reached  the  bottom  without 
mishap.  Then  to  the  study,  where  she  closed  the  door 
behind  her  and  set  her  candle  on  the  table.  "I  will  not  be 
afraid!"  she  said  to  herself,  but  she  was  trembling  and 
shivering. 


48  Isabel  Stirling 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  her  face  turned 
toward  the  door  of  the  other  room.  She  was  glad  the 
door  was  locked  and  that  the  key  had  been  taken  out.  She 
had  come  as  far  as  she  could.  Did  Mother  know  that 
she  was  there?  She  sat  down  in  the  easy  chair,  drawing 
up  her  feet  and  trying  to  cover  them  with  her  dressing 
gown.  Then,  quite  suddenly,  she  burst  into  tears.  She 
struggled  with  her  sobs,  lest  someone  should  hear  her. 
She  got  up  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room  until  she 
was  able  to  control  herself;  but  then  a  fresh  paroxysm 
seized  her  and  she  threw  herself  full-length  on  the  floor. 
After  a  while  her  sobs  ceased.  Sighing  and  moaning,  she 
fell  asleep. 

She  awoke  just  as  day  was  breaking.  There  was  a 
moment  of  confusion  and  then  she  remembered.  She  was 
ashamed  and  conscience-stricken  at  having  slept  at  her 
post,  and  frightened  lest  someone  should  be  up  early  and 
find  her  there.  It  seemed  to  her  that  nobody  could  ever 
be  so  cold  as  she  was,  and  she  ached  from  head  to  foot. 
Shivering,  she  made  her  way  upstairs  and  got  into  bed. 

In  the  morning  Father  went  to  the  cemetery  with  the 
long  box,  but  Isabel  was  too  ill  to  know  anything  about  it. 
For  many  days  she  knew  little  of  what  went  on  around 
her.  That  deadly  chill  was  followed  by  consuming  fever 
and  racking  pain  and  wild  fancies.  The  doctor  was 
there,  very  kind  and  cheerful,  but  when  he  got  out  of  the 
room  he  was  serious  enough  and  talked  to  Aunt  Eliza 
about  pneumonia  and  a  nervous  shock.  Aunt  Eliza  seemed 
to  be  with  her  nearly  all  the  time,  and  there  was  a  nice, 
cheerful  old  woman  called  Sally.  Isabel  liked  Sally  and 
would  cling  to  her  hand  when  the  pain  and  terror  were 
worst.  But  when  Father  stood  by  the  bed  and  looked  at 
her  she  cried  and  drew  herself  away  from  him  and 
called,  "Mother!  Mother !"  So  that  the  doctor  forbade 
him  the  room.  They  had  been  boys  together  and  John 
Brenton  was  not  afraid  of  the  minister. 

"What  you  have  been  doing  to  the  child,  I  don't  know," 
he  said.  "But  she's  afraid  of  you  and  you've  got  to  keep 
away." 


Isabel  Stirling  49 

So  William  Stirling  went  to  his  study  and  prayed 
solemnly  for  Isabel's  immortal  soul,  that  it  might  not  go 
down  to  Hell.  And  Miss  Lydia  came  and  inquired  for 
"the  dear  little  sufferer',  and  brought  what  comfort  she 
could  to  her  William.  And  so  the  weeks  passed,  until  in 
the  sunny  days  of  April  a  very  thin  and  pale  Isabel  was 
wrapped  up  and  taken  out  for  a  few  moments  at  a  time, 
to  hear  the  robins  sing  and  to  see  the  yellow  crocuses  in 
bloom  along  the  edge  of  the  flower-beds,  just  inside  the 
box  borders. 


VIII 

"And  what,"  asked  Miss  Lydia,  "does  our  dear  little 
Isabel  think  of  the  prospect  of  having  a  new  mother  ?" 

Lydia  and  the  Reverend  Mr.  Stirling  were  sitting  side 
by  side  on  the  sofa  in  Mrs.  Marvin's  front  parlor.  On  the 
Rev.  William's  evenings  the  Marvin  family  gave  that 
room  up  to  courtship  and  sat  in  the  back  parlor  with  the 
folding  doors  closed  between ;  an  arrangement  which  was 
irksome  to  the  girls  when  they  happened  to  have  beaux 
of  their  own.  But  behind  his  newspaper  their  father 
muttered,  "It's  worth  it,"  and  his  wife  pretended  not  to 
hear  him.  Lydia  and  Mrs.  Marvin,  although  sisters,  were 
unlike. 

Because  we  have  seen  William  Stirling  only  as  parson 
and  parent — sternly  conscientious  in  both  capacities — it 
must  not  be  supposed  that  there  was  no  other  side  to  his 
nature.  He  had  never  ceased  to  feel  a  resentful  grief  at 
the  loss  of  his  young  wife ;  and  had  always  carried  him- 
self rigidly,  partly  for  that  reason,  partly  from  a  strong 
sense  of  personal  and  professional  dignity  and  a  fear  of 
gossip,  besides  being,  in  truth,  greatly  engrossed  in  his 
perpetual  conflict  with  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the  devil. 
But  adulation  has  its  effect  on  all  men  and,  when  the 
odor  of  incense  is  perpetual,  the  most  fastidious  taste  is 
likely  to  become  vitiated.  When,  after  withstanding  a 
long  siege,  William  Stirling  finally  capitulated,  the  com- 
pleteness of  his  surrender  was  astonishing  to  himself. 
In  short,  he  had  not  the  slightest  objection  to  sitting  on 
the  sofa  beside  the  fair  Lydia  and  bestowing  on  her  such 
embraces  as  the  occasion  seemed  to  suggest.  For  the 
eternal  masculine  survives  even  bereavement  and  a  diet 
of  Calvinism. 

Lydia  was  now  thirty-three  years  old,  ten  years  his 

50 


Isabel  Stirling  51 

junior,  and  did  not  look  her  age.  Possessing  no  beauty 
of  face,  she  was  yet  pleasing  to  look  at,  having  a  slender, 
graceful  and  stylish  figure  and  fairly  regular  features. 
In  coloring  she  was  fair,  with  an  abundance  of  light, 
sandy  hair,  not  pretty  in  itself,  but  always  arranged  with 
the  neatest  precision  in  the  latest  style,  a  passable  com- 
plexion, and  eyes  which  were  oftener  green  than  gray. 
Her  clothes  were  really  as  fashionable  as  her  hair,  but 
they  were  of  tints  so  carefully  subdued  to  the  supposed 
ministerial  standard  and  were  so  trimly  put  on  that 
William  would  merely  have  called  her  "neatly  dressed." 
It  was  a  great  surprise  to  him  later  to  find  how  many 
hours  of  the  day  were  consumed  in  the  adornment  of  her 
person.  Her  voice  and  manner  have  already  been  suffi- 
ciently characterized  by  Isabel  and  Jessie,  but  it  must  be 
added  that  they  never  varied.  Years  after,  Isabel  said 
of  her:  "Of  course  her  sweetness  masked  something  that 
wasn't  at  all  sweet,  but  she  never — but  once — dropped  the 
mask.  No  matter  what  happened,  her  tones  were  always 
honeyed  and  she  always  looked  at  you  with  that  same 
holy  expression.,, 

In  fact,  Lydia  believed  in  herself  and  admired  her  own 
character  immensely.  She  thought  that  it  was  a  lovely, 
meek,  unselfish  Christian  character.  In  reality,  she  was 
consumed  with  ambition.  A  marriage  with  the  Reverend 
William  Stirling  was  the  most  ambitious  alliance  she 
could  make,  according  to  her  ideas  at  that  time,  which 
were  based  on  the  Ptolemy  standard  of  the  period.  For 
Ptolemy  never  had  been  an  aristocratic  place,  but  had 
grown  up  from  humble  beginnings;  and  if,  here  and 
there,  a  family  had  some  traditions  of  past  honors,  not 
much  was  said  by  them  about  those  things,  for  one  must 
live  with  one's  neighbors,  and  past  honors  do  not  always 
mean  present  prosperity.  As  to  that,  William  Stirling's 
family  had  been  a  good  one.  As  to  present  standards, 
Ptolemy  was  a  village  of  churches,  of  which  the  Presby- 
terian was  the  largest  and  richest;  and  its  pastor  was 
indubitably  the  most  eligible  unmarried  man  of  a  suitable 
age  to  be  found  there.     The  Episcopal  church,  which 


52  Isabel  Stirling 

Lydia  afterward  grew  to  value,  was  the  smallest  of  them 
all  and  its  parishioners  made  no  great  stir. 

Meantime,  Lydia' s  question  is  unanswered.  For  the 
matter  of  that,  her  William  had  to  leave  it  so.  He  did 
not  know  what  Isabel  thought  because  he  had  not  spoken 
to  her  o,f  her  prospects.  Of  course,  however,  she  would 
accept  the  new  mother  with  gratitude  and  affection. 

"But  she  won't  if  she  is  not  properly  told  of  it,"  replied 
Lydia,  who  was  nothing  if  not  diplomatic.  "Oh,  you 
innocent  man!"  She  drew  a  caressing  hand  down  his 
sleeve.  "Suppose  you  let  me  see  her  and  talk  to  her.  She 
is  surely  well  enough  now  to  see  me." 

Yes,  Isabel  was  well  enough  and  Lydia  might  call  when 
she  would.  Eliza  should  be  instructed  to  let  her  see  the 
child  alone.  The  following  day  saw  her  at  the  parsonage, 
much  startled  at  the  change  in  Isabel,  who  had  been  a 
pretty  child  and  would,  so  Lydia  fancied,  have  been  an 
ornamental  adjunct  to  the  wedding,  walking  up  the  aisle 
with  a  basket  of  flowers.  That  idea  was  promptly 
abandoned  when  she  looked  at  the  closely  cropped  hair, 
the  thin,  pale  face,  the  little  sticks  of  legs  and  the  bony 
wrists,  with  the  disproportionate  hands  and  feet  of  her 
"dear  little  daughter."  But  she  overflowed  with  endear- 
ments, holding  the  thin  hand  in  her  own  gloved  fingers, 
and  made  her  announcement  with  tender  promises  of  the 
good  times  coming  when  they  should  all  be  living  so 
happily  together.  Nevertheless,  the  visit  was  not  a  great 
success ;  for  what  could  one  do  with  such  an  utterly  un- 
responsive child  ?  Isabel  was  not  propitiated,  for  Father 
ought  to  have  told  her  himself. 

When  the  wedding-day  came  she  was  dressed  in  a 
brand  new  frock  and  drove  to  the  church  with  Aunt  Eliza 
in  a  much  grander  carriage  than  had  ever  before  been  at 
her  disposal.  She  and  her  aunt  sat  in  the  front  pew  on 
one  side  of  the  aisle,  whence  she  looked  across  at  the 
Marvins  in  the  corresponding  pew  on  the  other  side. 
Presently  Lydia,  in  all  the  chaste  splendor  of  her  heavy 
white  silk  gown,  with  its  long  train  and  the  bridal  tulle 
and  orange  blossoms,  came  sweeping  up  the  aisle  On 


Isabel  Stirling  53 

Father's  arm,  William  Stirling  having  refused  such  com- 
plexities as  bridesmaids  and  a  bride's  escort  of  Brother- 
in-law  Marvin.  And  then  a  friend  of  Father's  from  a 
neighboring  town  stepped  forward  and  married  them  in 
a  very  few  words. 

At  the  reception  afterwards,  the  Marvin  girls  were  very 
good  to  Isabel,  taking  charge  of  her  at  supper,  piling  her 
plate  with  all  sorts  of  goodies  and  giving  her  more  than 
the  one  box  of  wedding  cake  allotted  to  her.  That  was 
all  very  well,  but  she  wished  that,  among  all  those  grown- 
ups, she  could  have  had  just  Jessie.  She  felt  shy  and  out 
of  place,  and  when  she  heard  the  two  nieces  slyly  mak- 
ing fun  of  the  bride,  her  cheeks  burned.  The  bride  was 
Father's  wife  now,  strange  as  it  seemed.  She  listened, 
dreading  lest  they  should  say  anything  disrespectful  about 
him.  It  was  absurd  enough  to  be  sure,  for  Lydia  to  be 
putting  on  airs  of  being  in  love  at  her  age,  but  if  anyone 
had  made  fun  of  Father  it  would  have  been  too  awful 
to  bear.  All  unknown  to  herself,  the  chief  compensation 
for  his  unapproachableness  had  been  the  respect  which 
everyone  showed  him.  One  might  never  have  been  able 
to  love  him  very  much,  but  there  was  some  satisfaction 
in  being  proud  of  him.  Her  alarm  was  groundless. 
William  Stirling  bore  himself  well  in  a  position  which 
Lydia's  airs  and  graces  made  a  difficult  one.  No  one 
even  cast  a  disrespectful  glance  at  him. 

The  reception  was  over  at  last.  The  bride  and  groom 
started  off  on  their  wedding  journey,  and  Aunt  Eliza  took 
Isabel  home  and  sent  her  to  bed. 


IX 

During  the  interval  which  elapsed  before  the  return  of 
the  wedded  pair,  Aunt  Eliza  busied  herself  with  the  final 
polishing  of  a  house  which  already  shone  with  cleanness, 
and  Isabel  spent  more  time  than  ever  at  the  Giffords\  She 
dreaded  the  return  of  her  father  and  his  wife,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  failed  to  welcome  a  new  experience. 
The  weeks  passed,  and  presently  Aunt  Eliza  was  packing 
her  trunks  for  departure ;  for  she  did  not  intend  that  the 
bride  should  find  her  there.  In  view  of  her  responsibili- 
ties, her  going  was  planned  with  a  nicety  which  left  the 
smallest  possible  interval  between  the  old  and  the  new 
regime.  As  soon  as  their  handkerchiefs  should  be  seen 
waving  from  the  car  window  on  the  opposite  hill — the 
signal  which  she  had  requested — she  was  to  step  into  the 
waiting  carriage  which  would  carry  her  to  the  station  to 
take  the  outgoing  train. 

At  the  appointed  time  all  was  in  readiness.  The  table 
was  set  for  supper,  the  last  directions  had  been  given  to 
Ann,  Isabel  stood  at  the  front  door. 

"Well,  good-bye,  Isabel,'*  she  said.  "Don't  forget  to 
take  your  tonic  and  keep  out  of  drafts." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Isabel. 

"And  remember,  I  expect  you  to  write  to  me  every 
week." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  repeated  Isabel. 

Aunt  Eliza  put  her  hand  on  the  child's  shoulder  and 
gave  her  a  dry  kiss.  It  was  the  touch  of  the  hand  and 
not  the  kiss  which  moved  Isabel  out  of  her  forlorn,  shy 
reserve.     She  looked  up  into  her  aunt's  face. 

"I'm  sorry  you're  going  away,"  she  said,  and  suddenly 
put  her  arms  around  Aunt  Eliza's  neck. 

Aunt  Eliza  patted  her  shoulder  and  gave  her  another 

54 


Isabel  Stirling  55 

short  kiss.  "Be  a  good  girl,"  she  said  a  little  huskily,  and 
hurried  into  the  carriage,  winking  unaccustomed  tears 
from  her  eyes. 

Isabel  went  and  sat  in  the  parlor  until  she  heard  the 
wheels  of  the  arriving  carriage.  Then  she  ran  and  opened 
the  door,  feeling  that  to  be  a  duty  of  hospitality.  Lydia 
ran  up  the  steps  first,  but  at  the  door  hung  back,  waiting. 
Apparently  she  did  not  see  Isabel. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  go  in?"  asked  her  husband,  as, 
after  paying  the  hackman,  he  followed  her,  his  hands  full 
of  traveling  impedimenta. 

"Dearest!  You  must  lead  me  into  our  home,"  said 
Lydia. 

He  glanced  down  at  the  bags  and  wraps  and  stepped 
into  the  house  in  front  of  her.  "Come !"  he  said.  "It  is 
no  strange  place  to  you." 

Finding  herself  in  danger  of  being  left  behind,  she 
clutched  at  his  sleeve  and  was  thus  drawn  inside.  Mr. 
Stirling  deposited  his  burdens  on  floor  and  chairs  and 
turning,  saw  Isabel. 

"How  do  you  do,  Isabel,"  he  said,  kissing  her  briefly. 

Lydia,  who  now  seemed  to  see  her  for  the  first  time, 
precipitated  herself  on  her.  "My  dear  little  daughter!" 
she  exclaimed.  "So  you  came  to  the  door  to  welcome 
your  new  mother.    That  was  sweet  of  you." 

On  the  whole,  Isabel  preferred  Father's  and  Aunt 
Eliza's  way  of  kissing.  There  were  more  trying  things 
in  reserve  than  being  kissed,  however.  The  supper,  for 
which  Aunt  Eliza  had  made  such  careful  preparations, 
passed  off  very  well,  Lydia  praising  everything.  After- 
wards they  sat  in  the  parlor  until  nine  o'clock — a  new 
thing  for  Father,  who  usually  went  at  once  to  his  study. 
The  striking  of  the  clock  was  always  the  signal  for  Isabel 
to  go  to  bed,  and  she  rose  shyly,  on  account  of  the  good- 
night which  must  be  said,  but  promptly,  because  she  was 
longing  to  get  away. 

"You  haven't  called  me  Mother  yet,"  said  Lydia  play- 
fully, as  the  child  turned  to  her. 

Isabel  flushed  painfully.    She  expected  to  say  it.    That 


56  Isabel  Stirling 

was  what  made  the  good-night  so  hard.  It  was  more 
difficult  than  ever  now.  She  stood  in  the  doorway, 
swallowing  hard. 

"Isabel!"  said  her  father  sternly. 

She  straightened  herself  and  held  her  head  high. 
"Good-night — Mother!"  she  said.  And  then  to  her 
father,  reproachfully — "I  was  going  to !" 

It  was  the  nearest  approach  to  an  impertinence  that  he 
had  ever  heard  from  her. 

The  day  after  her  arrival  Lydia  inspected  her  new 
domain  from  garret  to  cellar.    At  dinner  she  remarked: 

"I  find  we  have  one  empty  room — that  room  off  your 
study.  It  will  make  a  delightful  little  snuggery  for  me, 
with  my  desk  and  sofa,  which  I'll  bring  up  from  Laura's, 
and  all  my  books  and  pictures.  And  it  will  be  so  sweet 
to  be  near  you  when  you  are  in  your  study." 

William  looked  up  from  the  joint  which  he  was  carv- 
ing. He  was  the  husband  now,  and  not  merely  the  lover. 
He  was,  more  than  all,  the  minister,  whose  privacy  must 
not  be  invaded. 

"It  will  be  impossible  for  you  to  have  that  room,  Lydia. 
All  the  rest  of  the  house  is  yours,  but  I  cannot  have  any- 
one passing  through  my  study." 

Lydia  smiled  sweetly.  "Dear  William,"  she  said,  "as 
if  I  should  wish  to  disturb  you !" 

Isabel  sat  with  her  eyes  cast  down.  She  always  tried 
to  forget  what  that  room  had  been  used  for. 

A  day  or  two  later  Father  drove  off  in  a  hired  buggy 
to  spend  a  morning  in  the  country,  calling  on  some  out- 
lying parishioners.  Pretty  soon  Isabel,  who  was  not  con- 
sidered well  enough  to  go  to  school,  and  was  wandering 
about,  somewhat  bored  with  her  leisure,  saw  a  wagon 
come  to  the  door,  piled  with  the  belongings  which  Lydia 
had  left  at  her  sister's  house.  She  was  surprised  and  a 
little  frightened  when  they  were  carried  through  the 
study  into  the  empty  room.  Aunt  Eliza  had  left  it  quite 
clean  and  there  was  a  matting  on  the  floor.  The  writing 
desk  and  sofa,  a  small  bookcase  and  a  couple  of  chairs 
were  put  in  place.    With  the  help  of  the  man  who  had 


Isabel  Stirling  57 

brought  them  up,  wedding  presents  were  unpacked,  pic- 
tures were  hung,  all  with  the  greatest  dispatch.  A  rug 
was  laid  down,  a  small  table  was  taken  out  of  one  up- 
stairs room,  a  couple  of  chairs  out  of  another,  until  the 
"snuggery"  was  completely  furnished.  Then  Lydia  dis- 
missed the  man  and  sent  Isabel  into  the  sitting-room  to 
lie  down,  while  she  seated  herself  gracefully  at  her  writ- 
ing desk,  with  the  door  open  between  the  two  rooms. 

Isabel  felt  that  she  must  know  what  happened  when 
Father  came  home.  It  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that 
she  had  known  him  to  be  defied.  When  she  heard  him 
drive  up,  she  got  up  from  the  sofa  and  went  across  the 
hall  to  the  parlor,  which  was  next  to  the  study. 

"What  does  this  mean  ?"  she  heard  him  ask,  in  a  tone 
which  recalled  the  earlier  uses  of  the  little  room. 

Isabel  trembled,  but  Lydia  did  not  seem  to  be  in  the 
least  frightened.  "I  knew  you  would  like  it  when  you 
saw  how  pretty  it  could  be  made,"  she  said  sweetly.  "Of 
course  I  had  to  do  it  immediately,  because  the  Marvins 
are  already  packing  up  to  leave." 

Without  a  word  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the 
room.  Isabel  heard  his  determined  footsteps  going  along 
the  hall  and  out  of  the  front  door. 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock,  the  hour  for  their  dinner. 
They  waited  half  an  hour  for  him  and  then  he  returned 
and  seated  himself  at  the  table,  with  no  allusion  to  any- 
thing that  had  happened.  Lydia' s  manner  was  unruffled. 
Isabel  was  intensely  curious  and  greatly  pleased  that 
somebody  besides  herself  should  be  the  culprit.  Presently 
the  heavy  steps  of  workmen  were  heard  in  the  hall,  and 
the  sound  of  tools  laid  down. 

"What  is  going  on?"  asked  Lydia,  starting  up. 
"Keep  your  seat!"  said  her  husband. 
But  she  did  not  keep  her  seat.    She  went  out  and  found 
that  the  men  had  been  ordered  to  cut  a  door  from  the 
little  room  into  the  hall.    She  was  not  gone  long,  for  she 
worked  quickly,  collecting  sheets,  with  which,  the  work- 
men helping  her,  she  covered  up  her  precious  belongings. 
"You  must  excuse  me  for  going,"  she  said,  as  she 


58  Isabel  Stirling 

seated  herself  at  the  table  again,  "but  broken  plaster  does 
make  such  a  dust.  You  didn't  think  of  that,  did  you? 
But  it  was  lovely  of  you,  dearest,  to  think  of  the  door. 
Now  it  will  be  quite  perfect." 

William  Stirling  made  no  reply,  nor  did  he  speak  again 
during  the  meal.  As  soon  as  the  opening  had  been  made 
into  the  hall  he  locked  the  door  communicating  with  his 
study  and  put  the  key  on  the  ring  which  he  carried  in  his 
pocket.  Some  days  later,  when  she  again  arranged  the 
room,  Lydia  placed  her  sofa  against  that  door;  and  if, 
reclining  there,  she  sometimes  overheard  confidences  made 
to  the  minister  which  were  not  intended  for  her  ears, 
clearly  that  was  William's  fault,  since  if  he  had  left 
things  alone,  the  sofa  would  have  remained  against  the 
other  wall,  and  he  would  always  have  known  whether  she 
was  in  the  room  or  not.  But  William,  who  with  all  his 
severity  was  not  suspicious,  did  not  know  how  easily  one 
could  hear  through  that  door.  As  for  Isabel,  she  stood 
in  the  new  doorway  of  the  "snuggery"  and  sighed  with 
thankfulness  that  it  was  at  last  like  other  rooms. 


In  these  days  Isabel  did  not  confide  in  Jessie.  An  in- 
stinct of  loyalty  forbade  her  to  speak  about  what  went  on 
in  the  house.  Lydia' s  coquettish  ways  with  her  father 
excited  her  derision,  and  on  the  rare  occasions  when  she 
surprised  her  father  in  the  act  of  responding  to  his  wife's 
endearments  she  was  filled  with  disgust  and  mortification. 
Father  was  too  old  for  such  romantic  doings.  They 
made  him  ridiculous.  Lydia  misunderstood  the  expres- 
sion on  her  candid  face.  One  day  she  said  archly:  "Our 
little  daughter  mustn't  be  jealous !"  Isabel  found  that  hard 
to  forgive. 

So  she  and  Jessie  talked  of  everything  except  of  what 
was  uppermost  in  their  thoughts;  for,  naturally,  Jessie 
was  curious.  Some  things,  to  be  sure,  she  could  see  for 
herself,  for  the  new  mother  had  no  idea  of  shutting  out 
visitors.  All  of  Isabel's  friends  were  urged  to  come  to 
see  her.  This  was  a  pleasant  innovation.  In  fact,  it 
had  to  be  admitted  that  many  features  of  the  new  regime 
were  pleasant,  and  in  the  natural  rebound  of  the  child's 
nature  toward  life  and  health  she  was  ready  to  welcome 
whatever  was  agreeable. 

In  the  management  of  the  house  there  were  radical 
changes.  Ann  was  soon  dismissed,  but  Isabel  had  never 
been  attached  to  Ann  as  she  was  to  Norah,  and  it  was  a 
relief  to  get  rid  of  her  heavy-footed,  blundering  service 
at  meals.  Two  servants  took  her  place,  for  Lydia  had  a 
little  income  of  her  own  with  which  William  Stirling 
was  far  too  proud  to  interfere.  He  never  asked  how 
much  it  was  nor  for  what  it  was  spent,  really  fancying  it 
to  be  less  than  was  the  case.  He  observed  with  satisfac- 
tion that  his  wife's  name  was  always  put  down  for  con- 
tributions to  missions  and  other  church  work.     As  to 

59 


60  Isabel  Stirling 

the  details  of  household  economy,  he  had  never  been 
observant,  having  always  been  made  comfortable  by 
his  mother  and  later  by  Eliza,  on  the  allowance  from 
his  salary.  He  was  now  made  much  more  comfortable 
by  Lydia,  who  was  a  good  housekeeper  and  skilled  in  the 
art  of  getting  the  utmost  possible  value  from  every  cent 
that  she  spent.  His  table  was  better  supplied  and  better 
served  than  ever  before,  and  since  there  was  nothing  in 
his  Presbyterian  creed  which  forbade  his  enjoying  the 
good  things  of  the  table — except  on  certain  rare  and 
specially  appointed  days  of  "prayer  and  fasting,"  he 
profited  pleasurably  by  her  housewifely  skill. 

Unfortunately  for  Isabel,  however,  his  conscience  was 
not  at  rest  with  regard  to  her  spiritual  welfare.  It  re- 
proached him  when  he  realized  how  much  he  had  been 
absorbed  in  his  own  temporal  affairs.  Here  was  the 
child  for  whose  soul  he  was  responsible,  barely  recovered 
from  a  dangerous  illness,  which  ought  by  all  means  to 
have  been  made  a  means  of  grace  to  her,  yet  still  un- 
converted. During  this  time  of  physical  weakness  she 
might  easily  have  been  led  into  the  steep  and  narrow  way 
which  a  Christian  must  travel.  In  the  absence  of  a  real 
love  for  her,  his  responsibility  loomed  large.  Woe  to 
him  if  he  did  not  fulfil  the  trust ! 

No  more  time  was  to  be  lost,  and  in  pursuance  of  his 
duty  as  he  saw  it,  Isabel  was  called  into  his  study,  not 
once,  but  many  times.  Unfortunately  the  Reverend  Will- 
iam Stirling  lacked  the  gift  of  persuasion.  He  talked 
to  her  solemnly,  prayed  with  her  fervently,  and  ques- 
tioned her  unsparingly.  To  the  child  this  was  torture. 
In  addition  to  the  unapproachable  shyness  of  her  age 
with  regard  to  such  matters,  she  had  as  yet  only  seen  the 
supreme  awfulness  of  religion.  Never,  since  the  day 
when  she  had  gone  to  the  Inquiry  meeting,  had  she 
willingly  opened  her  lips  on  the  subject  of  her  own  inner 
experience.  Nor  was  she  any  nearer  now  than  she  had 
been  before  to  regarding  the  Deity  who  was  presented  to 
her  with  the  feelings  which  were  required.  Not  being 
very  strong  as  yet,  she  wept  copiously,  which  irritated 


Isabel  Stirling  61 

her  father  extremely.  She  could  not,  however,  pretend 
to  feelings  which  did  not  exist.  She  could  only  say, 
through  her  sobs,  that  she  would  like  to  feel  as  he  wanted 
her  to  if  she  only  could.    But  she  couldn't. 

Such  obstinacy  seemed  to  him  to  be  of  the  Devil.  He 
had  not  yet  learned  that  a  child  of  his,  and  a  girl  at  that, 
could  be  a  distinct  entity,  apart  from  him,  with  a  mind 
which  was  not  a  mere  emanation  from  his  own.  More- 
over, his  demon  told  him  that  if  he  could  not  bring  his 
own  child  into  the  fold  he  could  hardly  be  counted  a 
success  in  his  calling.  As  to  her  youth — many  children 
of  her  age  were  already  members  of  his  church. 

He  fancied  that  he  had  been  persuasive.  Now  he 
waxed  lurid  in  his  warnings  of  the  punishments  reserved 
for  those  who  refused  the  means  of  grace.  He  was  an 
obstinate  man  and  renewed  the  struggle  day  after  day. 
As  a  natural  result,  the  child,  in  whose  cheeks  the  rose 
of  health  had  just  begun  to  bloom  again,  lost  color  and 
strength  and  crept  about  the  house  like  a  pale  little  ghost, 
always  in  terror  of  that  summons  to  the  study. 

Lydia,  who  was  quite  aware  of  what  was  going  on, 
was  in  her  secret  heart  a  good  deal  bored  by  both  father 
and  child.  She  was  still  a  bride.  This,  she  felt,  should 
be  her  own  special  summer  and  it  was  being  spoiled.  It 
was  a  case,  however,  where  she  was  likely  to  injure  her 
prestige  if  she  undertook  to  interfere.  Only  once  she 
said  to  Isabel: 

"Cannot  my  little  daughter  do  what  Father  wishes  and 
unite  with  the  church?  It  seems  very  unnecessary  to 
make  so  much  difficulty  about  it." 

Isabel,  who  thought  that  her  father  had  been  talking 
about  her,  which  was  not  the  case,  would  not  make  any 
reply  at  all,  but  left  the  room. 

It  was  in  the  hot  days  of  August  that  her  troubles  came 
to  a  climax  with  what  she  called  a  ball  in  her  throat.  A 
large  round  lump  seemed  to  have  settled  there  and  to  be 
threatening  her  with  suffocation.  It  was  so  terribly 
alarming  that  she  mentioned  it  to  Lydia,  who  looked  into 
her  throat  and  assured  her  that  there  was  nothing  there. 


62  Isabel  Stirling 

Nevertheless,  it  remained.  Sometimes,  when  she  was 
out  of  doors  she  would  cease  to  feel  it,  but  as  soon  as 
she  came  into  the  house  and  sat  down,  there  it  was  again. 
After  the  Sunday  morning  when,  gathering  up  all  her 
courage,  she  walked  out  of  church  in  the  middle  of 
Father's  sermon,  lest  the  worse  evil  befall  her  of  stran- 
gling to  death  in  full  sight  of  the  congregation,  Lydia 
sent  for  the  doctor. 

"A  little  run  down,"  was  his  verdict;  "and  needs  a 
tonic."  If  he  had  ventured  to  mention  hysteria  there  was 
no  knowing  what  reports  might  get  around.  They  would 
call  it  hysterics,  for  one  thing. 

"You  jump  into  my  buggy  with  me,"  he  said  to  Isabel, 
"and  I'll  take  you  to  my  office  and  get  something  fixed 
up.    It  will  do  you  good  to  get  out  of  doors." 

He  kept  her  out  all  the  morning,  trying  diplomatically 
to  find  out  what  was  the  matter  with  her.  One  couldn't 
ask  in  so  many  words  whether  the  cat  of  a  stepmother 
was  abusing  her,  and  the  real  cause  of  the  trouble  did 
not  occur  to  him.  She  brightened  up  a  little  however,  and 
said  that  the  lump  in  her  throat  was  better.  Then  he  took 
her  home  with  him._ 

"Have  you  ever  been  inside  my  house  ?"  he  asked. 

Isabel  couldn't  remember.  The  outside  of  the  house 
was  familiar  of  course,  and  the  little  front  yard  behind 
the  white  wooden  palings,  with  the  grass  plot  on  each 
side  of  the  flagged  walk  that  led  to  the  door,  and  the  lilac 
and  syringa  bushes  near  the  house,  and  the  two  red 
peonies,  one  on  each  side  of  the  walk,  just  inside  the 
gate.  It  was  a  white  house  with  green  blinds,  a  verandah 
across  the  front,  a  fan-light  over  the  door  and  two 
windows  on  each  side. 

Isabel  followed  him  in,  peeping  shyly  but  curiously  in 
at  the  parlor  on  the  right  before  he  led  her  into  the  room 
on  the  left.  This  was  the  waiting-room  of  his  office, 
furnished  stiffly  with  heavy  old  mahogany  pieces ;  a  book- 
case with  glass  doors,  a  round  centre-table,  littered  with 
old  magazines,  a  haircloth  sofa,  a  large  rocking  chair 
which  tipped  back  alarmingly  when  you  sat  down  in  it, 


Isabel  Stirling  63 

and  half  a  dozen  straight  chairs.  They  went  through  this 
room  to  the  office  back  of  it,  which  was  also  the  doctor's 
study.  This  room,  too,  was  furnished  with  heavy  mahog- 
any, but  was  far  more  livable  than  the  other.  There  were 
two  windows  looking  out  on  a  big  back-yard,  shady  with 
trees,  and  between  them  was  an  old  secretary,  its  flap 
down,  showing  pigeonholes  full  of  papers,  while  behind 
the  little  pointed  panes  of  the  bookcase  which  surmounted 
it  were  all  sorts  of  bottles  and  boxes.  There  was  a  com- 
fortable sofa  in  the  room,  an  easy-chair  and  a  large 
square  table  covered  with  books  and  magazines;  and 
there  wras  a  fireplace  with  brass  andirons  and  fender  and 
on  the  mantel  over  it  was  a  row  of  framed  photographs. 

"Sit  down  here,',  said  the  doctor,  "and  we'll  have  an 
egg-nog."    Going  to  the  door,  he  called:  "Norah!" 

The  name  aroused  memories  in  Isabel  and  she  turned 
her  head.  Astonishing  to  say,  it  was  the  Norah  of  the 
old  days  of  Grandma  who  came  in  response  to  the  sum- 
mons. She  was  married  now,  and  she  and  Michael,  her 
husband,  had  recently  come  to  live  with  the  doctor.  Isabel 
knew  her  at  once,  though  she  had  not  seer:  her  for  years. 

"Oh,  Norah !"  she  exclaimed,  jumping  up.  "Don't  you 
know  me  ?" 

Norah  didn't  know  her,  but  she  wa?  delighted  and 
voluble;  also  shocked,  although  she  refrained  from  men- 
tioning it. 

"This  little  lady  needs  an  egg-nog,"  said  the  doctor. 
"You  go  and  beat  the  egg,  Norah,  and  I'll  bring  you  just 
a  tiny  drop  of  the  crathur  to  put  in  it." 

When  he  went  into  the  kitchen  Norah  was  shaking  her 
head  and  exclaiming,  while  she  beat  her  egg.  "But  what's 
the  matther  wid  the  child  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Dr.  Brenton  slowly.  "I'm  trying 
to  find  out." 

'  'Tis  me  own  opinion,"  said  Norah,  holding  her  egg- 
beater  suspended  in  the  air,  "that  they're  killin'  her  wid 
their  religion.    Tis  a  cruel  religion  intirely." 

She  began  to  beat  the  liquor  in,  drop  by  drop,  and  the 
doctor  stood  by,  frowning  thoughtfully.    He  had  his  clue. 


64  Isabel  Stirling 

When  he  came  back  to  his  office  Isabel  was  standing 
by  the  mantel,  looking  at  the  photographs. 

"Who  are  they?"  she  asked. 

"My  nieces,"  he  told  her.  "I  had  a  sister  who  went  out 
to  Kansas  and  these  are  her  children." 

"So  many?" 

"Only  two — at  different  ages.  This  is  Anne  and  this 
is  Mary.  And  these  are  Anne  and  Mary  when  they  were 
smaller.  Here,  take  this  egg-nog  and  drink  it,  every 
drop." 

She  took  the  glass,  but  still  looked  at  the  pictures. 
"They're  grown  up  now,  aren't  they?  Everybody  has 
relations  but  me.  I  wish  my  mother  had  had  brothers 
and  sisters.  I  wish  these  were  my  cousins — each  pic- 
ture a  separate  cousin." 

"Well,  let's  adopt  them.  I'll  tell  them  when  I  write 
that  they  have  a  cousin  here." 

He  kept  her  with  him  for  another  half -hour  and  made 
her  talk  to  him.  She  told  him  more  than  she  was  aware 
of,  with  the  result  that  he  went  to  William  Stirling  and 
told  him  that  the  child  must  have  a  complete  and  long- 
continued  change,  unless  he  were  willing  to  take  the  risk 
of  having  her  an  invalid  for  life,  or  perhaps  losing  her 
altogether. 

William  demurred.  Her  place  was  at  home.  Yet  his 
confidence  in  Dr.  Brenton  as  a  physician  deprived  his 
objections  of  force.  One  final  argument  he  had.  "There 
is  no  place  to  send  her,"  he  said,  "so  that  ends  it." 

"How  about  Eliza?" 

"Eliza  is  in  a  boarding  school — or  will  be  in  a  few 
weeks.    She  is  out  of  the  question." 

"Ask  her.  It  won't  hurt  the  child  to  go  to  school — in 
moderation,  and  will  occupy  her  mind.  Ask  Eliza  if  she 
can't  have  her  there." 

William  could  not  refuse.  He  wrote  to  his  sister,  not 
knowing  that  John  Brenton  had  also  written.  To  his 
surprise,  Eliza  replied  that  she  had  consulted  Miss  Pryor 
and  had  found  the  arrangement  quite  feasible;  and  that 
the  expense  of  it  would  be  her  affair.    William  yielded 


Isabel  Stirling  65 

reluctantly,  but  insisted  on  sharing  the  expense.  He  had 
a  sense  of  being  baffled,  but  underneath  was  a  relief 
which  he  would  on  no  account  have  admitted  to  himself. 
For  the  rest,  he  fancied  that  he  could  trust  his  sister  to 
carry  out  his  ideas. 

Lydia,  under  sweet  and  sympathizing  speeches,  dis- 
guised her  pleasure  at  getting  rid  of  such  a  depressing 
"little  daughter."  She  went  to  work  zealously  and  effi- 
ciently. Under  her  capable  supervision  a  seamstress  pre- 
pared a  simple  outfit.  A  trunk  was  bought  and  packed, 
and  Aunt  Eliza  came  back  to  get  her  niece.  In  truth, 
Aunt  Eliza  was  glad  to  have  the  child,  having  lately  found 
out  how  much  she  loved  her ;  and  she  was  besides  grimly 
pleased  that  Lydia  had  so  soon  been  found  wanting,  that 
being  her  version  of  the  need  for  a  change. 


XI 

Over  on  the  other  hill  at  last!  As  the  train  steamed 
slowly  along  its  lower  level,  then  went  backward  and  in 
its  zigzag  course  passed  higher  up,  Isabel  gazed  out 
eagerly.  But  even  now  she  had  not  g^ne  high  enough 
to  look  over  the  top  of  the  hill.  As  far  as  she  could  see, 
the  ground  still  rose,  not  steeply,  but  in  a  gentle  ascent. 
It  was  a  country  of  prosperous,  uninteresting  farms.  She 
crossed  the  aisle  and  looked  out  of  the  opposite  window, 
across  the  ravine,  for  a  last  glimpse  of  the  parsonage,  and 
managed  to  recognize  it,  small  and  unfamiliar  though  it 
looked.  No  one  waved  a  handkerchief,  but  the  omission 
did  not  sadden  her.  She  turned  contentedly  to  Aunt 
Eliza.    "I  like  to  travel,"  she  said. 

It  was  a  long  and  tiresome  journey  before,  at  nine 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  they  arrived  in  New  York,  where 
they  spent  the  night  in  a  quiet  hotel  which  seemed  a  grand 
place  to  Isabel.  On  the  verge  of  sleep,  she  murmured 
happily:    "I  haven't  felt  the  ball  in  my  throat  all  day." 

The  next  day,  at  the  Twenty-seventh  Street  station, 
they  came  into  what  seemed  like  an  enormous  family 
party.  Girls  chattering  and  laughing,  greeting  and  kiss- 
ing; mothers  and  elder  sisters  seeing  them  off;  cries  of 
joy,  rapturous  embraces,  as  friends  met  again  after  the 
vacation.  Isabel  had  never  imagined  so  many  Marys, 
Kates  and  Annies.  There  was  also  a  Lily,  a  Laura,  a 
Josie,  even  a  Rebecca,  not  so  dignified  as  her  name.  She 
gazed  at  them  wistfully,  feeling  out  of  it  all.  "Don't 
you  know  any  of  them  ?"  she  asked  Aunt  Eliza. 

"I've  been  away  from  the  school  for  seven  years,"  said 
her  aunt.  "None  of  them  last  as  long  as  that.  We  shall 
know  them  soon  enough." 

They  all  crowded  on  the  cars,  not  a  train  yet,  but  each 

66 


Isabel  Stirling  67 

car  drawn  by  two  horses  through  the  tunnel.  Forty- 
Second  Street,  where  they  were  coupled  together  and  an 
engine  put  on,  was  so  far  uptown  that  very  few  persons 
got  on  there. 

The  train  went  on  its  leisurely  way,  stopping  every  few 
miles  at  some  small  station.  Isabel  never  forgot  the 
names  of  those  stopping-places,  from  Mount  Vernon, 
nearest  New  York,  to  Milford,  next  to  New  Haven.  Then 
the  change  at  New  Haven,  where  the  signs — "Beware 
of  pickpockets" — made  one  look  around  anxiously  and 
clutch  one's  pocketbook.  Then  a  train  again,  slower 
than  ever,  with  a  boy  coming  through  from  time  to  time 
with  his  tin  water-bucket,  and  the  two  glasses  in  their 
racks.  No  one  knew  anything  about  germs  in  those  days. 
And  finally  the  brakeman  called — "Mornington !" — and 
they  all  got  out. 

There  were  vehicles  standing  in  the  road  on  the  other 
side  of  the  station.  Two  more  miles  to  go,  first  along 
a  country  road,  then  over  a  stone  bridge  where  a  little 
river  joins  a  larger  one,  then  a  little  way  farther  and 
they  turn  into  the  village  street  with  its  overarching  elms 
and  its  houses  set  a  little  way  back  in  their  yards ;  colonial 
houses,  many  of  them  somewhat  rusty,  but  unspoiled  by 
alterations.  At  last  they  draw  up  in  front  of  a  large  brick 
house,  vefy  near  the  street,  with  a  two-story  verandah 
across  the  front  and  a  big  yard  on  each  side.  Everybody 
jumps  out  and  they  all  run  up  the  two  steps  to  the  veran- 
dah ;  but  they  do  not  rush  into  the  house  pell-mell.  For 
just  inside  the  door  stands  a  small  woman;  though  the 
girls  somehow  never  think  of  her  as  small.  A  middle- 
aged  woman,  with  an  insignificant  figure  and  a  plain 
rugged  face,  which  is  far  from  insignificant.  There  is 
power  in  that  face;  kindness  too,  and  a  glint  of  humor. 
There  is  no  beauty,  as  the  schoolgirl  understands  beauty, 
except  the  fine  line  of  the  head  from  the  forehead  over 
to  the  knot  of  hair  at  the  back,  and  the  smooth  brown 
hair  itself,  as  yet  barely  touched  with  gray.  This  is 
Miss  Pryor,  at  fifty,  or  thereabout. 

The  girls  have  stood  back  for  Aunt  Eliza,  who  enters 


68  Isabel  Stirling 

first,  followed  by  Isabel.  Hanging  back  timidly,  the 
child  is  struck  by  something  new  to  her  in  her  aunt's 
bearing  and  expression ;  a  flush  in  the  cheek,  a  light  in  the 
eye,  a  deference  of  manner  she  has  never  seen  before. 
Her  own  greeting  over,  Miss  Stirling  draws  Isabel  for- 
ward.   "This  is  my  niece,  Isabel  Stirling,"  she  says. 

Miss  Pryor  takes  Isabel  by  the  hand  and  looks  kindly 
at  her  before  she  kisses  her.  "You  will  find  your  old 
room  arranged  for  you  and  Isabel,"  she  says  to  Aunt 
Eliza. 

Isabel,  looking  back  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  sees 
that  each  girl,  as  she  enters,  is  briefly  kissed.  In  the 
sixties  the  school  is  still  like  a  family.  They  are  subdued 
for  an  instant,  but  presently  they  bubble  over  again  as 
they  throng  toward  the  stairs. 

Isabel  follows  Aunt  Eliza  up  one  flight  and  along  the 
hall,  into  a  room,  not  large,  furnished  with  two  single 
beds,  a  wardrobe,  bureau,  washstand,  table,  two  straight 
chairs  and  a  rocking  chair.  A  set  of  hanging  shelves  and 
the  waste  basket,  the  latter  to  be  known  henceforth  as 
"scrappy,"  complete  the  furniture. 


1 


XII 

School  life  is  intensely  interesting.  The  first  few  days 
are  unsettled.  Miss  Pryor  is  arranging  the  classes  per- 
sonally, supervising  the  list  of  studies  of  each  one  of  the 
seventy  girls,  seeing  that  one's  Latin  recitation  doesn't 
interfere  with  one's  hour  for  a  music  or  a  drawing  lesson ; 
straightening  out  endless  tangles.  For  there  are  no 
grades  into  which  a  girl  fits.  Each  one  is  considered 
separately. 

Nearly  all  night  Miss  Pryor  sits  at  her  desk  in  her  own 
room  at  the  end  of  the  Second  Hall.  There  is  a  legend 
among  the  girls  that  she  never  goes  to  bed  at  all,  at  any 
time;  for,  when  the  classes  are  arranged  and  everything 
is  in  running  order,  she  devotes  those  midnight  hours  to 
reading  and  writing. 

In  two  days  the  confusion  is  ended  and  the  school 
under  way  for  the  year.  Isabel  finds  herself  in  a  large 
arithmetic  class,  taught,  not  by  Aunt  Eliza,  whose  time 
is  filled  up  by  more  advanced  mathematics,  but  by  Miss 
Pryor  herself,  who  seems  always  to  take  what  others 
have  no  time  for.  Isabel  likes  those  arithmetic  lessons, 
in  the  corner  of  the  big  schoolroom,  the  girls  sitting  on 
two  benches  against  the  wall,  at  right  angles  to  each  other. 
Behind  one  bench  is  a  window,  looking  out  on  a  grassy 
space  shaded  by  old  trees.  Miss  Pryor's  chair  is  on  a 
low  platform,  a  table  beside  her,  and  on  the  floor  opposite 
her  stands  the  blackboard.  Always  Isabel  is  to  remember 
the  tolerant  little  laugh  with  which  Miss  Pryor  shifts 
herself  in  her  chair  in  order  to  see  the  blackboard  when 
a  left-handed  girl  comes  to  make  figures  on  it.  As  she 
is  to  find  out  later,  Aunt  Eliza  is  less  considerate.  Under 
her  rule,  a  girl  who  can  draw  perfectly  beautiful  geometri- 


70  Isabel  Stirling 

cal  figures  with  her  left  hand  is  made  to  look  foolish  and 
feel  irritated  by  being  compelled  to  draw  crooked  and  in- 
effectual lines  with  her  right-hand,  in  order  to  satisfy 
Miss  Stirling's  demand  for  uniformity. 

Isabel  also  finds  herself  studying  Latin  with  Miss 
Pryor — Harkness  Arnold's  First  Latin  Book.  She  has 
her  recitation  in  the  afternoon,  during  study  hour.  In 
the  three  rooms  known  as  study  halls  the  girls  sit  around 
extension  tables  which  have  been  drawn  out  for  them. 
She  leaves  her  seat  there  and  goes  out  into  the  hall.  There 
is  an  ell  halfway  down  the  hall,  lighted  by  a  double  glass 
door  giving  on  the  garden.  There  she  and  Miss  Pryor 
sit  side  by  side  on  a  large,  old-fashioned  sofa,  while  she 
recites  her  lesson.  She  has  a  certain  facility  in  learning 
and  soon  discovers  that  Miss  Pryor  overrates  her.  She 
really  knows  far  less  than  her  teacher  thinks  she  does. 
Is  she  to  confess  it?  Never!  It  is  too  wonderful  an 
experience  to  have  Miss  Pryor,  of  whose  intellect  the 
whole  school  stands  in  awe,  think  that  she  is  really 
clever.  She  does  what  she  can  to  maintain  the  illusion. 
The  result  is  a  lack  of  thoroughness  in  Latin  grammar, 
but  a  stimulation  of  her  ambition  such  as  she  has  never 
experienced  before.  She  finishes  her  recitation  and  goes 
back  to  the  study  hall  with  her  head  held  high. 

Rules  and  restrictions  hold  an  unimportant  place  in 
Isabel's  consciousness.  To  her,  the  keynote  of  the  school 
is  freedom.  Freedom  to  think  and  to  talk;  freedom  to 
associate  with  chosen  companions.  She  has  to  get  up  at  a 
certain  hour,  it  is  true,  but  so  do  all  the  others.  Once  up 
and  dressed  and  out  of  her  room,  she  is  in  a  world  of 
surpassing  interest.  After  prayers  there  is  breakfast,  and 
at  the  table  she  can  talk  as  much  as  she  likes,  and  she 
likes  to  talk  a  great  deal.  She  goes  through  the  morning 
happily.  Lessons  are  no  trouble.  Teachers  are  more  or 
less  interesting.  She  begins  the  study  of  French.  Madame 
Boulanger  is  odd,  not  too  tidy,  and  a  little  too  affection- 
ate. The  girls  dislike  her  mustache  and  the  way  she 
runs  her  knitting  needle  through  her  thick  wavy  hair. 
She  calls  her  favorites  "ma  minette,"  and  insists  on  kiss- 


Isabel  Stirling  71 

ing  them.  Her  beautiful  accent  is  a  matter  which  her 
pupils  appreciate  later  in  life ;  also  her  thoroughness. 

One  has  to  go  out  walking  twice  a  day;  a  short  walk 
in  the  morning  after  breakfast,  a  long  one  in  the  after- 
noon; but  one  goes  where  one  likes;  down  to  the  river, 
up  to  the  bluff,  along  the  road  to  Diamond  Glen,  or 
simply  up  and  down  the  street.  There  are  no  dangers 
and  no  supervision  is  needed;  the  girls  are  trusted. 
Walking  engagements  are  made  for  Mondays,  Tuesdays, 
Wednesdays,  and  so  on,  up  to  Saturday.  Naturally,  a 
new  girl,  and  much  the  youngest  in  school,  does  not  at 
first  choose  her  companions,  but  waits  to  be  chosen.  Isabel 
is  not  fortunate  in  her  first  walking  mate,  for  she  is  in- 
vited to  walk  on  Monday  afternoons  by  Dora  Holt,  a 
pale-faced,  red-lipped  girl  of  fourteen.  Dora  is  dressed 
in  mourning. 

"I'm  in  black  for  my  brother,"  she  told  Isabel  during 
their  first  walk. 

"Oh!"  said  Isabel  sympathetically.  She  wished  she 
could  think  of  something  more  to  say. 

"Yes,"  Dora  went  on,  "I've  lost  my  father  and  mother 
and  two  sisters  and  a  brother — all  of  consumption.  We 
all  have  it  in  my  family.  I  shall  have  it  some  day." 
She  spoke  cheerfully,  even  with  a  certain  complacency, 
as  if  feeling  the  importance  of  being  under  a  Doom. 

"How  dreadful !"  said  Isabel.  There  seemed  nothing 
adequate  that  she  could  say.  Casting  her  eyes  down,  she 
noticed  that  Dora  wore  the  thinnest  of  paper-soled  kid 
boots,  although  the  walks  were  wet  and  soft  after  a 
rain.  "Why  don't  you  wear  rubbers?"  she  asked.  "You'll 
bring  it  on  quicker." 

"Oh,  no  I  won't,"  replied  Dora  calmly.  "Nothing  will 
make  any  difference."  She  brought  a  little  paper  bag  of 
chocolate  creams  out  of  her  pocket.  "Have  one,"  she 
invited. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Isabel,  helping  herself.  "But  who 
takes  care  of  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"My  guardian,"  said  Dora  importantly,  aware  that  a 
guardian  sounded  very  grand  and  just  like  a  novel.    "He 


72  Isabel  Stirling 

sends  me  money  whenever  I  ask  him."  She  stopped  to 
put  a  chocolate  cream  into  her  mouth.  "Old  Bowles 
doesn't  give  you  many  for  ten  cents,  does  he  ?  I  think  it's 
rather  mean  to  say  we  shan't  spend  but  ten  cents  a  week 
on  candy,  but  then  of  course  we  don't  keep  to  it.  Last 
week  I  spent  a  dollar." 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  keep  to  it,"  said  Isabel.  She 
declined  the  offer  of  another. 

"Did  you  ever  know  anyone  who  died  of  heart 
disease?"  asked  Dora. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so." 

"My  most  intimate  friend  died  of  it.  She  was  going  to 
a  picnic  one  day,  and  when  she  stooped  over  to  lace  her 
shoes,  she  just  dropped  dead.  She'd  had  heart  disease 
for  a  good  while." 

"How  awful!"  Isabel  wondered  whether  she  would 
ever  feel  safe  when  she  was  lacing  her  own  shoes. 

Dora's  conversation  was  alarming,  but  had  a  certain 
fascination  until  you  got  used  to  it.  Isabel  herself  was 
less  fluent  than  usual. 

"I  hope  my  blue  worsted  will  come  to-night,"  said 
Dora.  "I  shall  die  if  I  can't  begin  my  shawl  soon.  I'm 
going  to  knit  it  for  Kate  Grey.    Light  blue — star-stitch." 

"I  never  could  knit  a  shawl,"  said  Isabel,  "and  I'd 
never  want  to." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  would,  if  you  were  in  love  with  a  girl. 
I'm  in  such  a  hurry  to  give  it  to  her.  I've  just  given  her 
a  fascinator — did  the  most  of  it  sitting  up  in  bed  after 
the  lights  were  out.  Enough  light  comes  in  over  the 
screen  from  the  hall,  you  know.  Have  you  fallen  in 
love  with  anybody  yet,  Isabel?" 

Isabel  laughed.  "I  never  heard  anything  so  funny," 
she  said.  "No,  I  don't  fall  in  love.  I'm  not  that  kind  of 
person." 

"You  wait !"  said  Dora.  She  smacked  her  red  lips  over 
the  last  of  the  chocolate  creams. 

On  the  whole,  Isabel  was  sorry  that  she  had  to  walk 
with  Dora  every  Monday  that  term.  It  gave  her  a  stuffy 
feeling. 


Isabel  Stirling  73 

On  Tuesday  she  walked  with  Francie  Hale.  Francie 
was  an  elfish  child  of  about  the  same  age  as  Dora ;  thin 
and  pale,  with  a  mass  of  long,  dry,  loosely  curled  light 
brown  hair,  which  stood  out  electrically  and  made  her 
sharp  little  face  look  sharper  than  ever.  Francie  was 
rather  serious  and  somewhat  fantastic  in  her  ideas.  She 
took  an  interest  in  her  lessons  and  was  just  now  much 
concerned  because  her  teachers  would  not  answer  all  her 
questions. 

"If  they  would  only  tell  me  why,"  she  would  say.  "I 
think  a  teacher  always  ought  to  be  willing  to  tell  you  why. 
It's  only  reasonable.  But  Miss  Pryor  is  the  only  one 
who  thinks  you  have  a  right  to  ask.  But,  of  course,  she's 
the  only  one  who  knows  all  there  is  to  know  about 
things." 

"I  shouldn't  think  she'd  want  to  teach  arithmetic  and 
Harkness  Arnold,"  said  Isabel. 

"Oh,"  said  Francie  sagely,  "I  don't  believe  she  finds 
it  any  worse  than  teaching  anything  else.  You  see,  even 
the  most  advanced  girls  are  only  beginners  compared  with 
her.  And  I  think  she  cares  as  much  about  the  girls  as  she 
does  about  the  lessons — and  so,  you  see,  looking  at  it 
that  way,  we're  worth  as  much  as  the  older  ones." 

"Suppose  Laura  Green  and  Emma  Olney  should  hear 
you  say  that !     My,  my !" 

"They  wouldn't  hear — even  if  we  shouted  it  in  their 
ears.  They  don't  know  we  exist — those  older  girls.  They 
don't  care  for  anything  but  to  be  intimate  with  the 
younger  teachers." 

"I  shouldn't  think  they  would,"  said  Isabel.  "Miss 
Carter "    She  sighed.    .    .    . 

Naturally,  you  walk  with  the  girls  nearest  your  own 
age.  Great  then,  was  Isabel's  surprise  and  pleasure  when 
Margaret  Hartington  asked  her  for  one  afternoon  a 
week.  Margaret  was  sixteen,  and  in  appearance  and 
mind,  mature  for  her  years.  She  was  treated  with  con- 
sideration by  the  teachers,  especially  by  Miss  Pryor  her- 
self, and  had  a  circle  of  warm  and  admiring  friends 
among  the  older  girls.     Yet  she  had  lost  her  heart  to 


74  Isabel  Stirling 

Isabel,  and,  subtlest  of  flattery,  treated  her  as  an  in- 
tellectual equal.  Isabel  talked  to  her  more  freely  than 
to  anyone  else.  Before  long  she  even  found  herself 
speaking  to  Margaret  of  religion,  the  subject  on  which, 
usually,  her  lips  were  sealed. 

Margaret  belonged  to  the  Episcopal  church  and  was  a 
devout  churchwoman,  and  Isabel's  curiosity  was  aroused 
by  her  affection  for  her  church  and  by  her  evident  lack 
of  fear.  It  must  be  nice,  she  thought,  to  have  a  religion 
that  you  are  not  afraid  of.  She  asked  questions;  and 
they  fell  into  a  discussion  of  doctrinal  points.  It  was  not 
for  nothing  that  Isabel  had  been  brought  up  on  the 
Shorter  Catechism. 

Fronting  on  the  village  street  was  an  old,  disused  ceme- 
tery, and  over  its  gate  an  arch,  inscribed:  "Memento 
Mori."  Sitting  on  the  steps  under  the  arch,  with  a  paper 
bag  of  sweets  tucked  between  them — a  concession  to 
Isabel's  youth,  provided  by  Margaret — the  two  discussed 
Infant  Baptism  between  mouthfuls. 

"In  your  church,"  said  Isabel  seriously,  "you  believe 
that  baptism  really  does  something  to  a  baby  ?" 

"Yes,  the  child  is  taken  into  the  church  and  made  a 
little  Christian;  and  given  a  start  in  the  right  way." 

"And  really  made  different  in  some  way  from  un- 
baptized  children?" 

"Yes,  we  believe  that." 

"Then,"  said  Isabel,  "I  can  see  some  sense  in  infant 
baptism.    In  our  church  I  don't  see  any  sense  in  it." 

They  talk  of  many  other  things  in  those  walks.  Isabel 
grows  to  know  Margaret's  father  and  mother,  sisters 
and  brothers,  uncles  and  aunts  and  cousins.  It  seems  to 
be  an  immense  clan.  She  reposes  on  Margaret's  large- 
hearted  affection  with  a  rest  fulness  which  she  has  not 
felt  since  that  long-past  time  when  she  clung  to  Grand- 
ma's hand. 

There  is  no  Episcopal  church  in  Mornington  and  the 
girls  who  belong  to  that  communion  are  allowed  to  drive 
to  a  neighbpring  town  on  the  first  Sunday  in  the  month. 


Isabel  Stirling  75 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  with  me  just  once?"  Mar- 
garet asks  Isabel. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  obtain  the  permission,  for  Miss 
Pryor  adopts  all  means  to  keep  Isabel  in  the  open  air. 
She  is  not  yet  robust.  It  is  a  thrilling  adventure.  With 
Margaret's  little  prayer-book  in  her  hand,  she  carefully 
kneels  and  stands  at  the  proper  places  and,  in  a  timid 
whisper,  makes  the  responses.  Actually  to  kneel  in 
church,  instead  of  just  leaning  over  and  propping  one's 
head  on  one's  hymn-book,  is  an  exciting  experience.  The 
music  which,  for  a  country  church,  is  not  bad,  seems  to 
her  angelic.  She  is  carried  away  by  an  emotion  which 
is  almost  religious. 

During  the  drive  home  she  is  silent.  Later,  she  is  able 
to  discriminate. 

"Do  you  love  God  really,  or  do  you  only  love  your 
church?"  she  asks  Margaret. 

"Why,  Isabel!"  exclaims  Margaret.  Then  she  falls 
into  thought.  "You  love  this  school,  don't  you?"  she 
says  at  last. 

"Yes,  I  love  it  tremendously." 

"Much  more  than  you  love  Miss  Pryor  herself?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"But  without  Miss  Pryor  there  wouldn't  be  this  school. 
Some  day  perhaps  the  school  will  seem  a  small  thing 
beside  Miss  Pryor." 

"I  understand.  But  Margaret — one  couldn't  exactly 
love  Father's  church.  There's  just  the  minister — and 
God.  Perhaps  you  mightn't  like  the  minister.  They  say 
you've  got  to  love  God.  They  don't  give  you  anything 
to  begin  with."    .    .    . 

In  memory  of  this  day  Margaret  gave  Isabel  the  little 
prayer-book,  on  the  fly  leaf  of  which  was  written,  in  her 
line,  slanting  hand,  the  prayer  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots: 
Fecisti  nos  ad  te,  Domine;  et  inquietum  est  cor  nostrum 
donee  requiescat  in  te. 


XIII 

One  says  one  is  "not  that  kind  of  person,"  and  then  one 
falls  in  love  all  the  same.  Isabel  fell  in  love  with  Miss 
Carter. 

She  and  Nelly  Joyce  recited  English  history  to  Miss 
Carter  every  afternoon  during  the  last  half-hour  of  study 
hour.  It  was  an  informal  sort  of  recitation,  the  two  girls 
sitting  on  a  long  haircloth  sofa  placed  across  the  window 
in  the  Third  Hall  (meaning  the  third  story),  and  the 
teacher  in  a  low  chair  opposite.  Miss  Carter  was  only 
twenty,  tall  and  slender,  with  dark  eyes  and  a  handsome, 
interesting  face.  She  had  been  brought  up  in  luxury  and 
when,  just  at  the  end  of  her  school-days,  financial  mis- 
fortune came,  Miss  Pryor  had  given  her  a  position.  Nelly 
Joyce  was  her  cousin  and  called  her  Cousin  Eleanor. 
Isabel  envied  Nelly  that  privilege. 

It  seems  that  the  only  way  you  can  show  your  adora- 
tion of  a  teacher  is  to  learn  your  lessons  very  perfectly. 
Isabel's  knowledge  of  English  history  grew  by  leaps  and 
bounds.  Never  was  the  list  of  kings  recited  more  glibly, 
never  was  their  genealogy  more  thoroughly  mastered; 
while  as  for  the  great  events,  she  had  them  all  at  her 
tongue's  end.    Miss  Carter's  praise  was  very  sweet. 

Occasionally  there  was  time  after  the  recitation  for  a 
little  conversation.-  Isabel  hung  on  every  word  of  the 
teacher.  Miss  Carter  recognized  the  adoration  with 
kindly  amusement.  One  day  when  Nelly  had  appealed  to 
"Cousin  Eleanor"  on  some  matter  or  other,  Isabel  sighed 
out: 

"How  nice  to  have  a  Cousin  Eleanor !" 

Miss  Carter  laughed.  "I'll  adopt  you  if  you  like,"  she 
said.  "Would  you  like  to  be  my  little  Cousin  Isabel  and 
call  me  Cousin  Eleanor?" 

76 


Isabel  Stirling  77 

A  lovely  color  flooded  Isabel's  face  from  brow  to  chin. 
"Oh,  yes!"  she  breathed  fervently. 

Yet  it  was  hard  work  for  her  to  get  out  the  words. 
She  was  thinking  "Cousin  Eleanor"  all  day  long,  but  she 
could  scarcely  ever  say  it.  Whenever  she  met  Miss  Carter 
in  the  course  of  the  day,  her  heart  would  begin  to  palpi- 
tate and  the  color  would  rush  to  her  cheeks.  Yet  she 
would  pass  by  with  only  a  sidelong  glance. 

One  day  Miss  Carter  held  out  a  detaining  hand.  "Why 
don't  you  speak  to  me  ?"  she  asked. 

"I — I  don't  know,"  faltered  Isabel. 

"Say,  'Good-morning,  Cousin  Eleanor/  "  commanded 
Miss  Carter. 

Isabel  looked  up  at  her  and  made  a  great  effort.  "Good- 
morning  —  Cousin  Eleanor"  —  the  last  words  hardly 
audible. 

"You  shy  child,"  laughed  Miss  Carter,  as  she  passed 
on.  How  then  was  Miss  Carter  to  understand  what 
happened  that  very  afternoon? 

Isabel  had  been  praised  by  another  teacher  for  her 
"compositions."  She  was  cultivating  her  English;  and 
where  should  she  be  so  careful  in  the  matter  of  style  as 
in  her  recitations  to  Miss  Carter?  The  best  must  be 
offered  at  that  shrine.  It  fell  to  her  to  give  an  account 
of  Magna  Charta.  It  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  re- 
peating those  words  too  often  and  that  it  would  be  well, 
in  the  interest  of  Style,  to  make  a  substitution.  So  she 
translated,  according  to  her  lights.  "This  great  charter," 
said  she. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Carter,  interrupting  the  smooth  flow 
of  her  narrative.    "Magna  Charta." 

"Yes,"  replied  Isabel,  intent  on  her  version,  "this 
great  charter." 

"But  you  mustn't  call  it  that.    Magna  Charta !" 

"It  is  the  same  thing,"  insisted  Isabel.  "I  had  said 
that  so  often.  I  just  translated."  The  thought  crossed 
her  mind  that  Madame  Boulanger  would  have  understood 
instantly — but  what  difference  did  that  make?  "The 
great  charter,"  she  repeated. 


78  Isabel  Stirling 

"Charta  !"  commanded  Miss  Carter,  accenting  the  hard 
C  with  firm  determination. 

"But  Magna  Charta  and  the  great  charter  are  the 
same/'  explained  the  pupil  doggedly.  She  often  won- 
dered afterwards  why  it  had  never  occurred  to  her  to 
yield  the  point.  At  the  time,  it  seemed  to  her  absolutely 
necessary  to  stick  to  her  version. 

"Not  charter — Charta."  There  was  severity  and  dis- 
pleasure in  the  teacher's  tone. 

Isabel  suddenly  lost  her  temper.  "Oh,  well  then,"  she 
exclaimed,  "the  great  Carter!" 

Dead  silence  for  an  instant.  Isabel  was  absolutely  ap- 
palled by  her  pun,  which  had  been  entirely  unintentional. 
But  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  speak. 

"Go  to  your  room!"  said  Miss  Carter;  and  she  went, 
heartbroken. 

It  was  the  end.  Miss  Pryor  bade  her  write  a  note  of 
apology  to  Miss  Carter  for  her  impertinence.  She 
achieved  a  very  stiff  one.  If  only  they — Miss  Pryor  and 
Miss  Carter — could  understand!  But  it  never  occurred 
to  her  to  try  to  explain  to  them.  Miss  Carter  did  not  love 
her  any  more;  Nelly,  too,  was  cold  to  her,  and  she  was 
very  fond  indeed  of  Nelly.  And  she  loved  Miss  Carter 
still. 


XIV 

In  the  spring  came  the  Civil  War.  The  girls  were  all 
excited  by  it  and  talked  incessantly  about  it,  yet  on  the 
whole  it  had  very  little  effect  on  the  life  of  the  New  Eng- 
land school,  where  there  were  no  southern  girls.  True, 
Miss  Pryor  was  deeply  stirred.  Every  evening,  before 
the  other  reading,  she  read  the  newspapers  to  the  girls 
and  made  comments  and  explanations  to  which  some  of 
them  wished  afterwards  that  they  had  listened  more 
attentively.  Some  of  the  girls  talked  of  their  brothers 
and  cousins  who  had  gone  to  the  war,  and  one  or  two  of 
them  were  daughters  of  officers  of  the  regular  army. 
Isabel  mourned  because  she  had  no  one  belonging  to  her 
who  could  go,  and  thought  seriously  of  inventing  a  cousin 
or  two.  She  played  with  the  idea.  What  adventures  she 
could  devise  for  them !  But  there  was  Aunt  Eliza,  who 
would  inevitably  hear  of  it.  She  reluctantly  admitted  the 
impossibility  of  the  scheme. 

Since  she  could  not  send  heroes  to  the  war,  she  made 
flag  penwipers,  mounted  on  penholders.  With  the  other 
girls  she  made  flannel  shirts  for  the  soldiers  and  came 
to  grief  over  the  buttonholes,  which  seemed  too  difficult 
for  mortal  fingers.  The  whole  school  thrilled  when  one 
of  the  young  teachers  went  away  hastily  to  be  married  to 
her  soldier  lover;  and  thrilled  still  more  when,  a  few 
months  later,  the  gallant  young  officer  fell,  mortally 
wounded. 

Isabel  had  extraordinarily  vivid  dreams  in  those  days. 
It  took  her  some  time  to  get  over  the  feeling  of  acute 
mortification  which  she  experienced  when,  finding  her- 
self in  a  dream  battle,  she  gave  way  to  terror  and,  turning 
to  run  away,  was  wounded  in  the  back.    She  never  forgot 

79 


80  Isabel  Stirling 

the  sensation  of  falling  headlong  on  her  face,  and  remem- 
bered saying  to  herself:  "Now  I  know  what  it  is  to  bite 
the  dust." 

At  another  time  she  found  herself  walking  in  the 
funeral  procession  of  freckle-faced  Dick  Maiden,  whom 
she  had  never  seen  since  that  memorable  day  when  she 
had  gone  home  with  Cassie.  A  Ptolemy  paper  which  had 
been  sent  to  Aunt  Eliza  had  mentioned  that  he  had  en- 
tered West  Point,  but  she  knew  nothing  more  about  him. 

For  the  rest,  the  girls  learned  their  lessons,  took  their 
walks,  quarrelled  or  fell  in  love  with  each  other,  just  as 
usual.  A  war  which  lasted  so  long  seemed  a  permanent 
condition.  Before  it  was  over,  Isabel  was  one  of  the 
older  girls. 

Little  by  little,  during  these  years,  she  changed  her 
point  of  view  with  regard  to  Aunt  Eliza.  The  Miss  Stir- 
ling of  the  school  seemed  a  different  person  from  the 
anxious  housekeeper  of  the  parsonage.  She  actually 
seemed  to  grow  younger ;  in  fact,  Isabel  learned  that  she 
was  not  really  as  old  as  she  had  appeared  to  a  child.  It 
also  became  evident  to  eyes  which  were  being  educated 
that  Aunt  Eliza  was  handsome  in  a  severe  and  classic 
way.  More  important  than  all,  she  was  kinder  than  she 
had  been  in  the  old  days;  in  fact,  understanding  the 
young  girl  far  better  than  she  had  understood  the  child. 

Isabel  could  not  at  once  get  over  her  astonishment 
when  she  found  that  her  aunt  did  not  take  very  seriously 
a  little  dust  on  the  furniture  of  their  room,  or  a  few  bits 
of  paper  falling  out  of  "scrappy"  and  lying  on  the  floor. 

"You  couldn't  have  stood  that  at  home,"  she  ventured 
to  say. 

"In  your  father's  house,"  replied  Aunt  Eliza,  "it  was 
my  duty  to  see  that  everything  was  in  order.  Here,  it 
isn't  my  duty.    It  is  Jane's." 

"And  you  didn't  do  all  those  things  about  the  house 
because  you  liked  to  ?" 

"No,  I  don't  like  housekeeping." 

"Poor  Aunt  Eliza!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  filled  with  a 
new  respect  and  sympathy  for  the  slave  to  duty. 


Isabel  Stirling;  81 

Her  life  with  her  father  was  more  and  more  becoming 
a  thing  of  the  past.  She  had  gone  home  for  the  first 
summer  vacation,  and  had  hoped  shyly  that  she  might 
find  a  baby  there,  or  some  prospect  of  one.  But  such  a 
thing  was  not  in  Lydia's  scheme.  Isabel  did  not  enjoy 
her  visit  and  after  that  Aunt  Eliza  usually  took  her  to  the 
quiet  places  where  she  was  fond  of  spending  her  own 
holidays.  The  adoption  of  her  niece  became  actual, 
though  not  formal. 

At  fifteen,  that  period  when  the  development  of  a  girl's 
aesthetic  and  emotional  nature  inclines  her  to  take  kindly 
to  genuflections,  physical  and  spiritual,  Isabel's  interest 
in  religion,  which  had  for  some  time  been  dormant,  was 
reawakened.  Margaret  had  left  school  and  she  had  no 
one  to  talk  to,  but  she  was  thinking  for  herself.  One 
day  she  made  a  great  effort. 

"Aunt  Eliza,"  she  said,  "I  should  like  to  be  confirmed 
in  the  Episcopal  church." 

Aunt  Eliza  looked  at  her  in  dismay.  "It  is  impossible," 
she  replied  curtly.  Then  she  added  more  gently.  "I  am 
very  glad  if  you  care  to  unite  with  the  church,  but  of 
course,  it  must  be  your  father's  church.  He  has  written 
me  often  about  it,  but  I  could  not  push  you." 

"But  I  don't  like  Father's  church,"  said  Isabel.  "I 
don't  want  to  belong  to  it.  I  want  to  belong  to  the 
Episcopal  church." 

"Your  father  never  would  permit  it.  And  it  would  be 
scandalous.  He  a  Presbyterian  minister,  and  you  going 
off  to  another  church — and  one  that  he  disapproves  of ! 
When  you  think  about  it  a  little  more  you  will  see  for 
yourself  what  you  ought  to  do." 

Isabel  set  her  lips.  "No,"  she  said.  "I  can't  do  what 
you  won't  let  me  do — but  I  can't  join  Father's  church." 

Aunt  Eliza  was  shocked  and  disappointed.  That  Isabel 
should  now,  of  her  own  accord,  desire  to  be  (as  her  aunt 
expressed  it)  a  Christian,  would  be  intensely  gratifying, 
if  only  she  did  not  want  to  go  about  it  in  such  an  im- 
possible way.  In  her  perplexity,  she  confided  in  Miss 
Pryor  and  asked  her  to  talk  to  Isabel. 


82  Isabel  Stirling 

Miss  Pryor,  the  descendant  of  a  line  of  Congregational 
ministers,  and  herself  little  inclined  to  pomps  and  cere- 
monies, had  no  particular  sympathy  with  Episcopal  ideas. 
Narrowness  of  any  sort  was  foreign  to  her,  but  she  was 
inclined  to  sympathize  with  the  Presbyterian  father, 
whom  she  had  never  seen.  In  her  generation  children 
walked  in  the  same  path  as  their  parents.  She  talked 
earnestly  to  Isabel,  and  could  not  at  first  understand  why 
the  apparent  unkindness  of  her  proposed  action  should 
leave  the  girl  so  unmoved. 

"If  you  love  your  father  you  will  not  wish  to  hurt 
him  so,"  she  said;  and  Isabel,  fixing  intent  eyes  on  her, 
said  nothing. 

"After  all,  Isabel,"  pursued  Miss  Pryor,  "we  all  wor- 
ship one  God,  whatever  our  form  of  worship  may  be." 

"No,  Miss  Pryor,"  replied  Isabel.  "That— that  is  just 
the  trouble.  It  isn't  the  same  God  at  all.  Always — 
since  I  was  little — I  have  been  told  that  I  must  love  God 
— and  I  don't  love  that  one.  I  think  I  never  shall.  In 
Father's  church  there's  a  God  I  don't  love,  and  there's 
Father  who  talks  about  Him.  Nothing  else.  Honestly,  I 
can't  do  it.  They  talk  at  the  Communion  service  in 
Father's  church  about  eating  and  drinking  damnation. 
That's  what  I  should  be  doing.  You  and  Aunt  Eliza 
have  made  me  see  that  I  can't  belong  to  any  other  church. 
I  can't  honestly  belong  to  Father's — and,  besides,  I  don't 
want  to." 

Her  voice  was  trembling.  It  had  been  hard  work  to 
say  so  much.  Miss  Pryor  took  her  hand  and  held  it 
closely.  Evidently  there  had  been  mistakes  made  with 
this  child;  and  there  had  been  unhappiness.  Her  heart 
yearned  over  the  girl.  But  it  was  a  matter  where  one 
must  walk  warily. 

"I'm  glad  you  are  honest,"  she  said.  "That  is  the  first 
thing.  Hold  fast  to  your  own  integrity,  my  child.  In 
time  you  will  see  how  little  external  matters  count.  And, 
Isabel,  even  while  you  do  not  belong  to  any  church,  I  hope 
you  will  always  be  a  good  Christian." 


Isabel  Stirling  83 

"A  Christian — without  belonging  to  a  church?"  said 
Isabel  wonderingly.  She  had  always  heard  the  word 
used  in  the  narrowest  way. 

"Christ  was  before  churches,"  said  Miss  Pryor. 


XV 

Isabel  is  seventeen  now.  The  war  is  over  at  last.  And 
school  goes  on  as  usual. 

Isabel  listens  more  understanding^  than  of  old  when 
Miss  Pryor  talks  to  the  girls  of  a  Saturday  morning 
after  prayers,  and  hears  things  which  she  remembers  all 
her  life.  She  is  one  of  the  older  girls  now,  and  feels  with 
pride  that  she  is  of  those  whom  Miss  Pryor  especially 
trusts.  And  she  is  the  Beauty  of  the  school.  She  is  tall 
and  slender,  and,  thanks  to  Aunt  Eliza's  unceasing  watch- 
fulness, has  a  beautiful  erect  carriage.  She  holds  her 
head  high  on  a  perfectly  formed,  slim  neck.  She  has  well- 
cut  features  and  her  coloring,  neither  dark  nor  blonde,  is 
delicately  rich.  Under  golden  brown  hair  and  beautifully 
penciled  eyebrows  her  darkly  fringed,  deep  gray  eyes  look 
out  with  a  singular  intentness.  It  is  perhaps  that  look 
in  her  eyes  which  one  remembers  best  of  all.  But  in 
addition,  everything  about  her  has  a  finished  appearance, 
in  refreshing  contrast  to  the  blunt  noses,  unfinished  ears 
and  indeterminate  mouths  and  chins  which  one  sees  on 
so  many  passably  pretty  girls. 

She  is  aware  of  her  beauty  and  glad  of  it,  but  is  without 
self-consciousness.  In  truth,  her  eager  spirit  has  no  time 
for  simper ings.  She  has  her  own  group  of  friends,  with 
whom  she  studies,  walks  and  talks.  Among  them,  no 
one  quite  takes  the  place  of  Margaret,  but  they  are  a  gay, 
clever,  attractive  group,  unconsciously  and  without  seri- 
ousness exercising  a  stimulating  effect  on  each  other's 
intellects.  Their  discussions  are  endless  and  they  have 
the  most  definite  opinions  on  most  of  the  great  questions 
of  life.  To  her  amusement  and  embarrassment  Isabel 
has  worshipers  among  the  younger  girls.  Offerings  are 
laid  at  her  feet,  adoring  little  fourteen-year-olds  flush 

84 


Isabel  Stirling  85 

when  she  speaks  to  them  and  are  in  the  seventh  heaven 
when  she  graciously  gives  them  a  walking  period  now 
and  then.    She  has  conquered  her  world. ' 

Of  men  and  boys  she  knows  nothing.  Her  aunt's 
vacations  are  spent  in  abodes  of  spinsterhood,  uninvaded 
by  man,  and  schoolgirl  flirtations  with  accidental  youths 
are  an  insult  to  her  fine  instincts  as  well  as  to  the  romance 
with  which  her  imagination  teems.  Of  the  ideal  man  she 
has  romantic  notions,  but  feels  for  actual  men  a  fine 
virginal  scorn,  only  surpassed  by  the  contempt  in  which 
she  holds  those  schoolgirls  who  are  always  talking  about 
some  "He."  She  seeks  her  triumphs  in  the  field  of  in- 
tellect and  finds  her  satisfaction  in  classroom  triumphs. 
Suddenly  she  is  fired  by  a  new  ambition. 

It  has  happened  one  day  that  Miss  Pryor,  emerging 
from  her  room,  has  seen  Isabel  sitting  alone  on  the  sofa 
in  the  second  hall  and,  after  a  glance  at  her,  has  gone 
back  and  come  out  again  with  a  small  volume  in  her 
hand. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Miss  Pryor,  handing  her.  the  book, 
"whether  you  can  turn  any  of  these  into  English  verse." 
Then  she  went  on  downstairs,  leaving  Isabel  breathless. 

It  was  a  book  of  Latin  verse.  She  looked  at  it  with 
mingled  pride  and  despair.  Well  she  knew  that  she  was 
utterly  incompetent  for  the  task,  but  what  joy  to  have 
Miss  Pryor  imagine  that  she  could  do  it !  She  tried — and 
tried  in  vain.  The  next  day  she  essayed  some  verses  of 
her  own.  She  read  them  fondly  at  first,  but  coldly  the 
next  day.  The  third  day  she  destroyed  them.  Next,  she 
decided  to  try  prose;  and  what  could  one  write  in  prose 
but  a  love-story?  It  didn't  in  the  least  matter  that  she 
knew  nothing  of  love.  Naturally,  it  was  a  war  story ;  a 
girl  who  found  her  lover  lying  wounded  in  a  hospital. 
Here,  at  last,  she  could  send  someone  to  the  war  and  give 
him  adventures.  She  wondered  she  had  never  thought 
of  it  before.  She  wrote  with  burning  cheeks  and  palpitat- 
ing heart  of  the  lovers'  meeting;  and  now  began  secretly 
to  cherish  shy  dreams  of  a  possible  real  lover — a  Prince 
Charming  whom  she  would  one  day  meet. 


86  Isabel  Stirling 

She  wrote  during  every  spare  moment  for  a  week ;  then 
made  a  careful  copy,  without  any  real  revision.  Reading 
the  story  over  critically,  she  decided  that  it  was  not  good 
enough  for  Harper's  or  the  Atlantic,  but  that  it  might 
do  for  Godey's  Lady's  Book;  so  to  that  magazine  she  sent 
it,  rolled  up  tightly.  Whether  Miss  Pryor  or  any  other 
teacher  inspected  the  addresses  of  the  letters  and  parcels 
put  into  the  mail-box  she  did  not  know,  but  the  girls  were 
forbidden  to  go  to  the  post-office,  so  into  the  school  box 
she  dropped  it.  If  Miss  Pryor  noticed  its  going,  or  the 
receipt  of  an  answer,  she  made  no  sign,  though  she  may 
have  felt  some  curiosity.  But  she  trusted  Isabel ;  and  her 
respect  for  a  girl's  individuality  was  always  carried  far. 

Weeks  passed  and  expectation  had  grown  dull  when 
Isabel  received  a  notification  that  her  story  had  been  ac- 
cepted. But  there  was  no  accompanying  check,  and  she 
had  had  golden  visions  of  pecuniary  returns.  More  weeks 
passed  and  she  wrote  a  note  of  inquiry,  to  which  came 
the  reply  that  young  writers  were  usually  entirely  satisfied 
to  see  their  contributions  in  print  without  being  paid  for 
them.  Irritated  by  a  suspicion  that  the  editor  was  taking 
advantage  of  her  inexperience,  she  ordered  the  manu- 
script to  be  returned,  to  her  subsequent  lasting  regret.  For 
the  rest  of  her  time  at  school  she  abandoned  authorship. 


XVI 

One  wonders  whether  the  girls  of  Isabel's  generation 
really  differed  as  much  from  their  daughters  as  one 
fancies  they  did.  Certainly  they  were  too  little  addicted 
to  outdoor  sports,  yet  it  was  not  altogether  to  their  dis- 
advantage that  they  sometimes  found  it  possible,  even  in 
pleasant  weather,  to  spend  a  holiday  afternoon  in  reading 
aloud.  They  were  not  being  educated  with  the  scientific 
thoroughness  which  now  prevails,  and  looked  upon  read- 
ing as  a  treat,  quite  unconnected  with  a  serious  study  of 
Literature.  They  venerated  intellect  and  talked  any 
amount  of  nonsense,  much  interlarded  with  quotations, 
but  what  they  sought  was  amusement,  not  Culture.  At 
present  Dickens  was  in  the  ascendant  as  a  quotable  author. 
Quite  ignorant  of  life,  and  lacking  in  the  admirable 
aplomb  which  characterizes  their  descendants,  they  had  a 
million  artless  theories,  which  they  discussed  ardently, 
saying,  when  worsted  in  an  argument:  "I  would  rather  be 
wrong  than  insolently  right." 

And  yet,  having  lived  through  a  four  years'  war — 
impressionable  years  for  them — they  knew  something  of 
suffering  and  heroism  and  devotion  to  an  ideal.  Added 
to  this,  they  were  under  the  influence  of  a  woman  of 
lofty  standards,  whose  assumption  that  they  were  some- 
what better  than  they  knew  themselves  to  be  was  a  con- 
stant stimulus.  In  spite  of  a  fair  amount  of  schoolgirl 
silliness,  their  faces  were  turned  to  the  heights,  even 
though  an  unwary  foot  might  sometimes  slip  to  a  humili- 
ating fall. 

On  a  certain  rainy  Saturday  afternoon  in  late  Novem- 
ber, Isabel  was  sitting  with  a  pair  of  her  chosen  friends ; 
"all  compact  and  comfortable/'  said  Adelaide,  and  Helen 

87 


88  Isabel  Stirling 

finished  the  quotation  for  her.  The  three  were  busy  with 
the  crude  "fancy-work"  of  that  period.  Adelaide,  a 
raven-haired,  dark-eyed  beauty,  was  embroidering  a  re- 
markable sofa-cushion  in  worsted  cross-stitch,  Helen  was 
crocheting  a  headgear  known  as  a  mariposa,  but  which 
certainly  bore  no  resemblance  to  a  butterfly,  and  Isabel, 
who  impartially  hated  all  manner  of  handiwork,  fancy  or 
other,  was  drawing  to  the  end  of  the  immense  under- 
taking of  a  large  shawl,  knitted  of  crimson  wool  in  an 
intricate  stitch.  She  had  begun  it  in  October,  as  a  Christ- 
mas present  for  Aunt  Eliza  and  had  toiled  faithfully  in 
all  her  leisure  time,  ripping  out  to  rectify  mistakes  and 
painfully  reknitting,  until  at  last  it  was  a  creditably  well- 
made  piece  of  work. 

"Almost  done !"  she  sighed,  as  she  began  a  fresh  row. 

"Poor  Isabel!"  said  Helen  laughing.  "Aunt  Eliza 
ought  to  appreciate  that  shawl." 

"I  wish  you  had  something  to  read  aloud  to  us,"  said 
Isabel,  her  eyes  glued  to  her  work.  "I  can  always  do  a 
lot  while  Miss  Pryor  is  reading.  When  I  don't  talk  I  can 
count  these  horrid  little  threes  and  listen  too." 

Helen  held  her  work  off  at  arm's  length  and  gazed  at 
it  out  of  dreamy  blue  eyes.  "I  think  I'll  put  the  blue  in 
now,"  she  said.  "And  oh,  girls,  don't  you  like  to  have 
Miss  Pryor  tell  us  what  she  thinks  about  a  book?  It 
makes  you  see  things.  I  can  see  now  how  George  Eliot 
never  gets  away  from  the  idea  of  Nemesis.  According 
to  her,  every  least  little  thing  that  you  do  wrong  you  have 
to  pay  for  in  full." 

"What  about  the  wicked  flourishing  like  a  green  bay 
tree?"  asked  Isabel. 

"Well,"  returned  Helen,  "I  suppose  they  pay  sometime. 
Only  George  Eliot  would  make  you  pay  now — without 
letting  you  off  hereafter." 

"If  only  there  weren't  any  rules,"  said  Adelaide  re- 
flectively. 

"Then  you'd  have  your  own,"  retorted  Isabel.  "And 
they'd  very  likely  be  a  lot  harder  to  keep.     There  are 


Isabel  Stirling  89 

advantages  in  being  a  Roman  Catholic.  Confession  and 
absolution — and  you  begin  all  over  again." 

This  remark  met  with  disapproval,  ultra-protestantism 
being  the  order  of  that  day. 

"And  your  father  a  Presbyterian  minister !"  cried 
Helen  reproachfully. 

Isabel  smiled,  and  having  knitted  to  the  end  of  her 
needle,  held  her  work  up  to  survey  it  to  advantage.  "I 
wouldn't  knit  another  for  anything  in  the  world,"  she 
said  wearily. 

There  was  a  horrid  cracking  sound  and  a  chorus  of 
dismay  from  the  girls.  Under  the  weight  of  the  heavy 
fabric  the  wooden  needle  had  broken  in  two. 

"Quick!  Let  me  take  the  stitches  off  for  you  on  the 
other  needle,"  said  Helen,  and  the  work  was  confided  to 
her  skilful  hands. 

"I  meant  to  finish  it  to-night,"  Isabel  said  disgustedly. 
Then  she  jumped  up  from  her  chair.  "I'll  ask  Miss 
Pryor  to  let  me  go  to  Bowles's  for  another  pair  of 
needles.     I  got  these  there." 

"It's  almost  dark.    Hurry,  or  she  won't  let  you." 

Isabel  raced  downstairs  to  Miss  Pryor's  room  and 
made  her  request.  Miss  Pryor  glanced  out  of  the 
window  at  the  darkening  sky  and  the  steady  rain. 

"No,"  she  said.  "It  is  too  late.  You  must  wait  until 
Monday." 

No  one  ever  ventured  to  reiterate  a  request.  Isabel 
went  away  outwardly  respectful  and  inwardly  rebellious. 
She  had  vowed  to  finish  the  shawl  that  evening.  It  was 
perfectly  unreasonable  to  refuse.  When  the  lust  of  fin- 
ishing got  hold  of  her  she  was  not  to  be  thwarted.  In  the 
heat  of  indignation  she  went  to  her  room  for  her  purse, 
and  then  downstairs.  In  the  storm-porch  there  were 
sure  to  be  a  few  waterproof  cloaks  and  umbrellas,  left 
there  to  dry.  She  helped  herself,  pulled  the  hood  of  the 
cloak  over  her  head,  and  ran  all  the  way  to  Bowles's 
store.  It  was  not  far,  and  she  met  no  one  on  the  way. 
Bowles  sold  her  the  needles  and  she  ran  back,  her  heart 
beating  fast.    When  she  came  in,  a  maid  was  lighting  the 


90  Isabel  Stirling 

lamps  downstairs,  a  couple  of  girls  sitting  on  the  hall 
sofa  glanced  at  her  carelessly,  and  she  walked  quietly 
to  her  room  and  put  the  knitting  needles  in  a  drawer. 

There  was  no  reading  aloud  on  Saturday  evening,  so 
she  took  her  work  up  into  the  Third  Hall  and  sat  there 
alone,  finishing  her  shawl.  The  other  girls  were  down- 
stairs dancing.  Bound  by  that  old  promise  to  her  father, 
Isabel  could  not  dance,  and  longed  for  it  so  much  that 
she  hated  to  look  on,  so  they  were  accustomed  to  her 
absence.  While  she  worked,  reflection  set  in  and  when, 
her  task  finished,  she  went  down  to  prayers,  she  was  more 
acutely  unhappy  than  she  had  ever  been  since  she  came, 
a  child  of  twelve,  to  the  school.  She  was  overwhelmed 
by  the  enormity  of  her  sin.  Miss  Pryor  had  always 
trusted  her,  and  she  had  failed  to  live  up  to  the  trust. 

During  the  restless  hours  of  a  wakeful  night  she  sought 
for  some  way  of  atonexnent.  At  last  she  resolved  to  go 
to  Miss  Pryor  in  the  morning  and  make  confession  and 
ask  forgiveness.  It  would  be  hard,  and  very  likely  in  the 
future,  instead  of  Miss  Pryor's  overestimate,  she  would 
have  to  be  content  to  be  rated  at  even  less  than  her 
deserts.  But  she  would  regain  her  self-respect,  and  that 
was  what  mattered  most.  On  that  she  was  falling  asleep, 
when  a  sudden  question  struck  her  and  she  sat  up  in  bed. 
Did  her  self-respect  matter  more  than  anything  else? 

For  she  remembered  the  time,  last  year,  when  in  one 
of  her  Saturday  morning  talks,  Miss  Pryor  had  told  them 
of  a  letter  she  had  received  from  a  former  pupil,  one  of 
those,  she  told  them,  whom  she  had  trusted  most.  The 
letter  contained  a  confession  of  sins  of  disloyalty  and 
deception,  committed  while  the  writer  was  at  school.  She 
could  not,  she  declared,  rest  any  longer  with  them  on  her 
conscience,  so  she  had  relieved  her  mind,  at  the  cost,  as 
it  turned  out,  of  the  peace  of  mind  of  the  revered  teacher. 
For  Miss  Pryor  was  evidently  greatly  distressed  by  the 
revelation.  It  made  her  feel,  she  told  her  girls,  that  she 
hardly  knew  whom  she  could  trust;  and  she  ended  her 
brief  talk  on  honor  and  loyalty  with  a  pathetic — "I  wish 
she  had  not  told  me." 


Isabel  Stirling  91 

"I  was  bad  enough  when  I  did  the  thing,"  said  Isabel 
to  herself,  "but  I'd  be  worse  if  I  went  and  told  Miss 
Pryor." 

However,  expiation  in  some  form  there  must  be,  and 
she  spent  the  rest  of  the  night,  first  in  devising  it  and 
then  in  rebelling  at  her  own  device.  Pale-cheeked  and 
heavy-eyed,  she  went  to  breakfast  in  the  morning.  Aunt 
Eliza  was  worried  and  Miss  Pryor,  who  always  noticed 
a  girl's  looks,  was  solicitous.  Confessing  to  a  perfectly 
genuine  headache,  Isabel  was  excused  from  church  and 
advised  to  lie  down.  She  longed  to  bury  her  aching  head 
in  the  pillows,  but  first  she  had  work  to  do. 

From  the  window  she  watched  the  girls  and  teachers 
on  their  way  to  church  and  then  locked  the  door  and  took 
the  precious  shawl  from  its  hiding-place.  She  sat  down 
with  it  in  her  lap.  How  pretty  was  its  gay  warm  crim- 
son ;  just  the  color  to  suit  Aunt  Eliza.  And  how  well  she 
had  done  it — she  who  was  so  stupid  at  such  work.  She 
buried  her  face  in  its  softness  for  a  moment  and  then, 
picking  out  the  thread  at  the  spot  where  she  had  fastened 
it,  she  raveled  it  all  out,  methodically  winding  the  wool 
in  balls.  This  was  her  punishment ;  this,  and  the  weari- 
some reknitting. 


XVII 

It  had  seemed  to  Isabel  that  schooldays  were  to  go  on 
indefinitely,  but  on  her  eighteenth  birthday  she  began  to 
look  ahead  a  little  anxiously.  Many  girls  left  school  at 
eighteen,  and  she  could  hardly  expect  to  stay  there  longer 
than  another  year.  Aunt  Eliza,  more  anxious  than  she, 
offered  suggestions  of  teaching,  a  hope  of  a  little  place  in 
the  school,  if  Miss  Pryor  would  permit,  so  that  they  could 
stay  together.  Isabel  said  impatiently  that  she  didn't 
want  to  teach;  she  wanted  to  live!  Aunt  Eliza  sighed, 
said  she  would  think  about  it,  and  secretly  wondered 
whether  she  could  afford  a  year  abroad.  There  the  matter 
rested  for  the  time,  and  before  it  could  be  seriously  taken 
up  again  a  great  change  came. 

The  day  before  school  broke  up  for  the  summer  Aunt 
Eliza  was  taken  ill.  Their  trunks  were  packed,  but  she 
was  unable  to  go.  She  said  she  would  be  able  to  leave 
in  a  day  or  two,  but  she  did  not  get  better.  Isabel, 
assisted  by  the  housekeeper,  took  care  of  her.  Every- 
thing seemed  strange  and  unreal  in  the  big  empty  house, 
which  had  always  been  so  full.  Miss  Pryor  was  very 
kind,  taking  her  to  drive  when  she  could  be  spared  and 
visiting  the  invalid  many  times  a  day. 

Aunt  Eliza  did  not  get  better.  In  a  day  or  two  Miss 
Pryor  sent  to  the  neighboring  city  for  another  doctor  and 
at  the  end  of  the  week  William  Stirling  was  summoned. 
Before  he  came,  Aunt  Eliza  had  a  talk  with  Isabel. 

"I  am  going  to  die,"  she  said,  "and  I'm  sorry.  These 
last  years  have  been  my  best  ones.  Always  remember 
that  you  have  made  them  so." 

Isabel  tried  to  speak,  but  before  she  could  find  her 
voice  her  aunt  went  on: 

"I  have  always  saved  something,  and  my  investments 
have  been  safe.    I  have  left  everything  to  you — in  trust, 


Isabel  Stirling  93 

until  you  are  older.  It's  safer.  John  Brenton  will  look 
out  for  it.    There  will  be  about  six  hundred  a  year." 

Again  Isabel  tried  to  speak. 

"Don't  interrupt  me!"  said  Aunt  Eliza  with  some 
asperity.  It  was  not  altogether  easy  to  talk.  "I  always 
keep  some  money  on  hand,  and  I've  just  been  paid.  Yes- 
terday I  got  Miss  Pryor  to  draw  out  a  good  sum.  There's 
enough  left  there  for  expenses,  and  I  want  you  to  have 
this." 

She  put  her  hand  under  the  pillow  and  drew  out  an 
envelope.  "I'm  very  tired,"  she  murmured,  as  if  to 
herself.  She  lay  with  her  eyes  closed  for  a  moment, 
collecting  her  strength.  Then  she  opened  them  again  and 
looked  up  at  Isabel.  "There's  nothing,"  she  said  feebly, 
"that  is  quite  so  comforting  as  to  have  money  in  your 
pocket.  Don't  spend  this  till  you  have  to.  Don't  tell 
anyone  you  have  it.  Promise  me!"  She  waited,  her 
eyes  holding  Isabel's. 

"Of  course,  I  promise,"  said  Isabel,  holding  back  her 
sobs. 

Aunt  Eliza  closed  her  eyes  again.  "I  hope  William  will 
let  you  come  back  here,"  she  murmured.    "I'll  ask  him." 

Once  more  she  opened  her  eyes.  "I  suppose  I  ought  to 
say  other  things,"  she  said.  "But  I  know  you'll  be  a  good 
girl.  As  to  religion — I  don't  know  much."  A  smile 
flickered  across  her  face.    "I'm  going  to  find  out." 

When  William  Stirling  came  she  was  beyond  speech. 

The  strange  day  of  preparation  for  the  journey  home 
was  mostly  spent  by  Isabel  in  Miss  Pryor's  room,  sur- 
rounded by  the  tenderest  care.  She  divined  instinctively 
that  Miss  Pryor  was  herself  overwhelmed  by  the  mystery 
of  death  and  she  wondered  at  it,  for  she  had  been  used 
to  such  certainty  of  tone  among  religious  people,  but  it 
seemed  to  bring  them  nearer  together  than  anything  else 
could  have  done.  Miss  Pryor  was  deeply  religious,  but 
it  seemed  that  she  had  to  brace  herself  strongly  against 
the  bulwark  of  faith  to  confront  the  unknowableness  of 
what  existed  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 

To  Isabel,  herself,  the  horror  of  death  was  its  awful 


94  Isabel  Stirling 

finality;  its  relentlessness,  which  allows  no  second  chance 
to  show  one's  love.  Her  conscience  reproached  her  with 
sins  of  thoughtlessness  and  indifference.  In  the  night 
her  mind  went  back  over  every  incident  of  those  days  of 
her  aunt's  illness,  every  minutest  detail  of  the  final  scene. 
And  her  flesh  shuddered.  Instead  of  being  dulled  by  grief 
and  shock,  her  perceptions  seemed  sharpened,  her  brain 
more  alive  than  ever  before.  When  alone  with  Miss 
Pryor,  instead  of  weeping,  she  talked — talked  endlessly 
and  with  an  extraordinary  keenness  of  thought  and  com- 
mand of  language.  Miss  Pryor,  guarding  and  listening, 
understood  the  girl  as  she  had  never  done  before.  But 
with  her  father,  Isabel  was  silent. 

William  Stirling  conducted  himself  with  admirable 
dignity  and  self-control;  listened  to  all  that  Miss  Pryor 
had  to  tell  him,  and  thanked  her  for  her  care  of  his  sister 
and  his  daughter.  Only  when,  in  her  yearning  over  the 
girl,  she  said  she  hoped  he  would  let  her  have  Isabel  back 
again,  he  declined  to  commit  himself.  And  then,  the 
necessary  delays  over,  the  good-byes  said,  he  and  Isabel 
went  to  bury  Aunt  Eliza  beside  Grandma. 


PART   TWO 


XVIII 


It  was  to  a  greatly  changed  village  that  Isabel  came 
back.  Not  only  had  Ptolemy  lived  through  the  Civil  War, 
with  its  suffering  and  loss  and  its  compensating  enlarge- 
ment of  mind ;  it  had  found  within  its  borders  a  public- 
spirited  benefactor  who  had,  by  his  latest  enterprise,  put 
it  in  touch  with  the  world. 

A  plain  man,  Simeon  Far r ell  by  name,  an  inventor 
and  an  idealist,  had  had  a  vision  of  bringing  education 
within  reach  of  the  poor  man  and  adapting  it  to  the 
needs  of  the  plain  workingman.  And  he  had  decreed  that 
his  university  should  belong  to  no  church  or  sect.  So 
the  sectarians  called  it  a  "godless"  institution,  the  heads 
of  older  universities  scoffed  at  its  methods,  and  the  cul- 
tivated world  in  general  asked  derisively,  "Can  one  take 
Farrell  University  seriously  ?"  The  future  was  to  prove 
them  wrong. 

Meantime,  little  cared  the  Ptolemites  for  these  attacks. 
It  was  an  exciting  experience  to  have  a  university  with 
a  number  of  professors  and  several  hundred  students 
dropped  down  on  the  village,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  blue. 
For  they  had  not  troubled  themselves  very  much  over 
the  preliminaries,  scarcely  knew,  indeed,  of  the  difficulties 
over  the  land-grant  and  the  struggle  to  wring  the  charter 
from  an  unfriendly  legislature.  The  community  only 
woke  up  when  the  date  of  the  Opening  was  actually  fixed. 
On  that  gala  day  they  flocked  to  hear  the  speeches  and 
gaze  at  the  distinguished  personages.  They  filled  the  hall 
in  the  morning  and  footed  it  up  the  hill  to  the  Campus 

95 


96  Isabel  Stirling 

in  the  afternoon — a  campus  which  was  as  yet  little  more 
than  a  corn-field.  In  the  evening  they  attended  the 
reception  in  the  same  hall  which  had  witnessed  the  cere- 
monies of  the  morning.  The  benches  had  been  removed 
and  the  floor  swept  and  the  company  paraded  solemnly 
around  in  an  unbroken  procession,  talking  of  the  day's 
doings  and  vastly  occupied  with  the  celebrities  who  were 
present. 

To  most  of  the  people  the  college  professor  was  an 
unknown  species  and  regarded  with  deep  respect.  In 
addition  to  his  preeminence  in  learning  he  was  expected 
— heaven  save  the  mark! — to  set  a  smarter  pace  in  cus- 
toms and  manners.  As  was  to  be  anticipated,  the  greatest 
excitement  was  among  the  women.  They  realized  sud- 
denly that  life  had  been  very  dull  hitherto.  Now  there 
would  be  new  people  to  know,  lectures  to  attend,  "culture" 
to  be  had  for  the  asking ;  and,  for  the  girls,  beaux  enough 
to  go  around. 

The  ministers  of  some  of  the  churches  were  so  far 
infected  with  the  excitement  that  they  got  into  the  way 
of  preaching  sermons  abounding  in  classical  quotations 
and  scientific  allusions.  Not  so  the  Reverend  William 
Stirling.  He  had  from  the  first  been  one  of  the  bitterest 
opponents  of  the  "godless"  university,  and  had  done  what 
in  him  lay,  both  in  public  and  private,  to  prevent  its 
existence.  People  still  talked  about  the  sermon  which 
he  had  preached  from  the  text,  "He  will  not  be  slack 
to  him  that  hateth  Him,  He  will  repay  him  to  his  face" ; 
in  which  they  thought  they  could  detect  personal  allusions, 
though  in  that  they  were  mistaken,  at  least  so  far  as  the 
intent  went. 

William  Stirling  had  by  this  time  been  made  a  Doctor 
of  Divinity,  while  his  next-door  neighboor  had  been  ele- 
vated to  the  bench.  Judge  Gifford  was  a  trustee  of  the 
university,  and  his  son  Edmund,  who  was  soon  to  return 
from  two  years  of  European  study  and  travel,  had  been 
appointed  an  assistant  professor;  a  combination  of  cir- 
cumstances which  proved  such  a  serious  strain  on  the 
neighborly  friendliness  which  had  for  many  years  sub- 


Isabel  Stirling  97 

sisted  between  Judge  Gifford  and  his  pastor  that  the 
former  was  threatening  to  go  to  another  church,  and 
was  only  lingering  from  force  of  inertia — a  force  which 
mostly  kept  him  at  home  of  a  Sunday. 

Surprisingly  enough,  another  charter  member  of  the 
board  of  trustees  was  Dr.  Stirling's  old  enemy,  Peter 
Maiden,  formerly  of  Maiden's  tavern.  Some  years 
earlier  Peter  had  gone  prospecting  in  the  oil  fields  of 
Pennsylvania  and  had  "struck  oil,"  so  that  he  came  home 
a  rich  man.  On  his  return  he  sold  his  tavern,  bought  the 
old  Lansing  house,  which  happened  just  then  to  be  in  the 
market,  and  took  a  pew  in  the  Episcopal  church.  There 
he  was  to  be  seen  every  Sunday,  clothed  in  broadcloth 
and  fine  linen,  with  his  daughter  Cassie  (except  during 
the  time  when  she  was  away  at  the  city  boarding-school 
to  which  he  sent  her),  and  his  sister-in-law,  the  "Aunt 
Mary"  of  Isabel's  childish  recollection.  As  for  his  son 
Dick,  the  freckled  boy  of  whom  Isabel  had  had  a  brief 
glimpse,  he  had  graduated  from  West  Point  and  was 
stationed  in  the  Far  West.  His  father  and  Cassie  were 
very  proud  of  Dick. 

As  Mr.  Maiden  proved  himself  a  generous  giver  both 
in  the  church  and  out  of  it,  his  name  was  soon  in  demand 
to  head  subscription  lists;  and  as  he  was  an  enthusiastic 
supporter  of  the  dominant  political  party,  it  was  not  long 
before  he  was  sent  to  the  State  legislature,  where  he  did 
yeoman's  service  in  helping  to  get  the  charter  for  the 
university. 

Now  that,  after  Dr.  Stirling's  unsuccessful  opposition, 
the  university  was  actually  started  and  going  on  under  his 
very  nose,  he  held  aloof  from  it  in  every  way,  much  to  his 
wife's  regret.  Indeed,  Lydia  was  half-inclined  to  wonder 
whether  she  had  not  been  a  little  hasty  in  yielding  to 
William's  wooing.  Life  seemed  to  offer  more  now  than 
it  had  done  at  that  time.  However,  the  tpo  frequent 
recurrence  of  her  birthday  and  the  recollection  of  six 
years  of  married  importance  went  far  to  reconcile  her 
to  being  a  little  out  of  things  now;  that,  and  the  firm 
determination  to  be  well  in  the  centre  of  affairs  within  a 


98  Isabel  Stirling 

reasonable  space  of  time.  Meantime,  her  sister-in-law's 
death,  just  before  the  first  Commencement,  would,  in 
any  case,  have  prevented  her  from  participating  in  the 
festivities  of  the  occasion.  In  her  pious  way,  Lydia 
thought  that  the  Lord  had  timed  things  very  well. 


XIX 

At  eighteen,  one  does  not  forget,  but  one  rebounds. 
Isabel  still  grieved  and  still  regretted,  but  sooner  than 
she  would  have  believed  possible,  she  found  herself  thrill- 
ing with  the  excitement  of  a  new  adventure.  For  to  be 
"out  of  school' '  and  "a  young  lady"  mattered  so  im- 
mensely. One  felt  quite  justified  in  considering  oneself, 
for  the  time  being,  the  centre  of  one's  universe.  She 
fancied  that  life  in  the  parsonage  would  now  be  to  her 
an  altogether  different  affair  from  what  it  had  ever  been 
before.  To  her  thinking,  her  footing  in  the  family  would 
be  that  of  an  equal — ready,  of  course,  to  treat  her  elders 
with  respect,  but  no  longer  in  a  state  of  tutelage.  The 
knowledge  of  her  financial  independence  added  no  little 
to  this  feeling,  and  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she 
thanked  Aunt  Eliza  for  it. 

Added  to  all  this  was  still  another  interest.  For,  in 
the  tenderness  of  her  grief  and  the  poignancy  of  her 
regret  over  affectionate  and  dutiful  deeds  left  undone, 
she  had  made  many  good  resolutions,  chief  among  them 
being  the  determination  to  win  her  father's  affection. 
Not  that  she  knew  exactly  how  to  go  about  it,  her  father 
being  singularly  unresponsive  to  affectionate  advances, 
but  surely  she,  who  without  an  effort  had  won  school- 
mates and  teachers,  was  not  going  to  fail  with  her  own 
father.    For  a  time  it  was  interesting  to  make  the  effort. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  William  Stirling  was 
even  more  unapproachable  than  in  her  childhood.  Of 
late  years  he  had  found  in  certain  intellectual  pursuits 
a  refuge  from  disappointment  in  the  results  of  his  minis- 
terial work  and  from  a  growing  weariness  of  Lydia's 
conversation.  He  was  devoting  himself  to  those  studies 
with  ever-increasing  absorption.    He  found  in  the  work 

99 


ioo  Isabel  Stirling 

of  a  student  a  satisfaction  of  mind  and  an  assuagement 
of  spirit  which  nothing  else  yielded  him;  and  his  only 
regret  was  that  he  had  begun  his  scholarly  activities  so 
late.  While  conscientiously  endeavoring  to  leave  noth- 
ing of  his  pastoral  duty  undone,  he  was  striving  to  make 
up  for  lost  time,  rising  early  and  going  to  bed  late.  Lydia 
complained  that  she  saw  nothing  of  him  any  more. 

Lydia  had  greeted  Isabel  with  an  impressive  tenderness 
which  conceded  her  claim  to  consideration  as  a  bereaved 
person;  a  tenderness  which  was  even  more  pronounced 
when  the  terms  of  Aunt  Eliza's  will  and  the  amount  of 
her  property  became  known.  For  the  stepmother  had  had 
her  own  anxieties  regarding  the  advent  of  a  grown-up 
daughter  to  claim  a  share  in  an  income  which  was  now 
pleasantly  apportioned  to  the  needs  of  two  persons  and 
to  the  charities  which,  as  she  knew,  William  would  not 
allow  to  be  curtailed.  With  Isabel  so  well  taken  care 
of,  Lydia  addressed  herself  to  the  delightful  task  of 
arranging  the  young  girl's  wardrobe ;  for  next  to  the  joy 
of  choosing  her  own  clothes  came  the  pleasure  of  per- 
forming the  like  service  for  another  person — always,  be 
it  understood,  with  that  other  person's  money.  And 
Isabel,  who  in  matters  of  dress,  had  great  respect  for 
her  stepmother,  gladly  accepted  her  assistance  and,  over 
the  details  of  a  simple  mourning  outfit,  was  drawn  into 
a  fairly  cordial  relation  with  her.  Meantime,  Lydia 
began  to  find  that  the  title  of  "Mother"  was  not  quite 
to  her  taste. 

"It  does  seem  ridiculous,  doesn't  it,"  she  said  one  day, 
"for  me  to  pose  as  having  a  grown-up  daughter.  Why, 
you  are  more  like  my  dear  little  sister.  Suppose  you  call 
me  Lydia,  dear.     Wouldn't  you  like  that?" 

Isabel,  who  was  the  taller  by  several  inches,  looked 
down  at  her  out  of  her  intent  eyes.  In  spite  of  their 
present  amiable  relations,  her  stepmother  struck  her  anew 
as  a  very  absurd  person.  But  the  idea  wasn't  a  bad  one. 
"Yes,  I  believe  I  would,"  she  said. 

"Jhat's  right,"  said  Lydia,  holding  on  to  the  note  of 
vivacity,  although  inexplicably  disconcerted  by  Isabel's 


Isabel  Stirling  iol 

candid  gaze.  "We'll  be  just  the  dearest  friends  and.ypu!ll 
tell  me  all  your  little  secrets." 

Isabel  smiled.     "But  I  haven't  any." 

"Not  yet,  not  yet,"  returned  Lydia  archly.  "But  the 
time  will  come — and  I'll  always  be  ready  to  hear  them." 

While  awaiting  the  period  of  interesting  confidences, 
Lydia  encouraged  the  girl  in  such  diversions  as  she 
deemed  that  her  mourning  would  permit.  All  the  friends 
of  her  childhood  came  to  see  her.  Young  girls  filled  the 
parsonage  parlor  or  sat  on  the  porch,  chattering  their 
nonsense.  Young  men  were  scarce  in  the  summer  vaca- 
tion, but  sometimes  one  or  another  came,  brought  by 
the  girls.  Isabel  did  not  get  on  particularly  well  with 
them.  She  had  very  little  of  the  coquette  in  her  com- 
position and  she  had  had  no  training  in  the  social 
amenities.  She  found  the  boys  uninteresting  and  wasted 
no  pains  on  them.  And  yet,  in  the  depths  of  her  heart, 
she  was  longing  for  romance. 

As  of  old,  Jessie  was  the  friend  of  her  heart;  Jessie, 
with  her  lovely  big  brown  eyes  and  her  perfectly  reliable 
sympathy.  Jessie  was  calm,  a  bit  lazy  perhaps,  but  she 
was  always  ready  for  you  when  you  wanted  her  and  she 
always  understood.  The  Giffords'  house  became,  as  in 
the  old  days,  a  home  to  Isabel,  a  place  where  she  was 
petted  to  her  heart's  content  and  where  she  could  always 
be  quite  herself. 

It  was  at  the  Giffords'  that  she  first  heard  Cassie 
Maiden  mentioned.  The  name  at  once  aroused  her  to 
the  liveliest  interest.  She  had  never  forgotten  the  esca- 
pade of  her  childhood ;  and  the  big  room  full  of  toys,  with 
the  cat  lying  in  the  sun,  seemed  to  her  like  a  far-off, 
enchanted  place.  In  the  reticent  atmosphere  of  the  par- 
sonage she  had  never,  as  a  child,  heard  of  her  father's 
long  warfare  with  Peter  Maiden  of  the  tavern,  nor  had 
she  yet  learned  of  his  stern  disapproval  of  Peter  Maiden, 
capitalist  and  philanthropist.  Jessie,  however,  was  very 
conscious  of  these  things. 

"Why — haven't  you  heard  of  her?"  she  asked,  in  reply 
to  Isabel's  eager  questions.     "They  lived  over  on  South 


102  Isabel  Stirling 

Hil!  unt'i!  Mr.  Maiden  'struck  oil'  and  made  his  fortune. 
Now  they  have  bought  the  old  Lansing  house  and  fixed 
it  up.  Cassie  was  at  boarding  school  in  New  York 
until  lately/' 

"Has  she  got  an  Aunt  Mary  ?"  asked  Isabel. 

"Yes,  her  Aunt  Mary  brought  her  up." 

Isabel's  cheeks  were  pink  with  excitement.  "Oh,  I'd 
so  love  to  see  Aunt  Mary  again !"  she  exclaimed. 

"But  how — "  began  Jessie,  and  stopped. 

Judge  Gifford  laid  down  his  paper  and  looked  inter- 
ested, and  Mrs.  Gifford  made  no  feint  of  concealing  her 
curiosity. 

Isabel  laughed.  "I  never  told  you  half  the  naughty 
things  I  did  when  I  was  little,  Jessie,"  she  said ;  and  went 
on  to  describe  the  escapade.  "I'd  just  love  to  see  Cassie 
and  Aunt  Mary,"  she  finished. 

Judge  Gifford  and  his  wife  exchanged  glances.  It 
was  not  likely  that  Dr.  Stirling's  daughter  would  be 
allowed  to  see  much  of  the  Maidens.  However,  she  was 
bound  to  meet  them,  sooner  or  later,  and  it  was  at  the 
Giffords'  house  that  it  happened;  and  she  and  Cassie 
took  to  each  other  at  once,  just  as  they  had  done  a  dozen 
years  before. 

Cassie  was  not  handsome,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she 
wore  beautiful  clothes  and  knew  how  to  put  them  on,  but 
her  broad  merry  face  was  irresistibly  attractive.  Although 
her  admission  to  Ptolemy  society  was  due  in  the  first 
instance  to  her  father's  newly  acquired  position  as  a 
man  of  wealth  and  public  spirit,  her  popularity  was  her 
own  affair.  In  addition,  she  had  gained  in  her  city  school 
more  knowledge  of  the  world  and  more  finish  of  manner 
than  most  of  the  Ptolemy  girls  could  boast. 

"Do  come  to  see  me,"  said  Isabel  at  parting.  "You 
know  I  paid  the  last  visit — and  what  a  good  time  I  did 
have!    I  want  so  much  to  see  your  Aunt  Mary." 

Cassie  smiled,  wondering  whether  Isabel  really  didn't 
know  what  an  unwelcome  guest  any  Maiden  would  be 
at  the  parsonage.  "Aunt  Mary  is  going  to  be  married 
pretty  soon,"  she  said. 


Isabel  Stirling  103 

"Married  ?"  Isabel  always  felt  surprised  when  she 
heard  of  middle-aged  people  marrying. 

"Yes.  She  would  have  been  married  years  ago  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  us.  She  never  told  anyone  a  word  about 
it,  but  just  stayed  and  took  care  of  us.  But  he  waited 
for  her."  Cassie's  blue  eyes  softened  as  she  spoke.  They 
were  nice,  frank,  honest  blue  eyes. 

"How  lovely !"  cried  Isabel.  "I'd  know  she'd  do  that. 
I  want  to  see  her  more  than  ever." 

"She'd  love  to  see  you,"  returned  Cassie.  And  there 
the  affair  rested  for  a  time. 

Meanwhile,  Isabel  didn't  mention  the  matter  when 
she  got  home,  partly  because  of  the  unpleasant  associa- 
tions of  that  childish  visit,  partly  because  she  instinctively 
felt  that  the  atmosphere  of  the  parsonage  would  not,  even 
now,  be  favorable  to  the  Maidens. 


XX 

August  had  come,  with  its  hot,  shortening  days.  The 
early  roses  were  past,  but  Grandma's  garden  was  gay 
with  geraniums  and  verbenas,  and  sweet  with  mignonette 
and  heliotrope.  Encouraged  by  Lydia,  Isabel  went  out 
of  a  morning  and  cut  flowers  to  fill  the  vases,  that  being 
the  eminently  proper  task  of  the  young  lady  of  the  house. 
The  little  gate  was  much  in  requisition  in  these  days. 
From  the  attic  Isabel  brought  some  discarded  chairs  and 
a  settee  and  in  the  old  spot  of  their  childish  play  arranged 
a  retreat  sacred  to  herself  and  Jessie.  Lydia  never  dis- 
turbed them  there.  The  rickety  steps  did  not  invite  her 
clean  muslin  gowns  and  high-heeled  slippers,  and  the  out- 
of-door  light  was  merciless  to  her  complexion. 

The  two  girls  talked  endlessly.  Each  had  to  relate  the 
experiences  of  the  years  of  separation ;  and,  since  such  is 
the  way  of  girls,  they  reverted  from  time  to  time  to  the 
everlasting  theme.  To  the  present  generation  their  ideas 
would  seem  incredibly  unsophisticated,  not  to  say  prig- 
gish. Isabel  now  discoursed  as  gravely  and  as  innocently 
of  possible  love  and  marriage  as  she  had  formerly  ex- 
patiated on  predestination  and  infant  baptism.  She  and 
Jessie  were  quite  agreed  as  to  the  sinfulness  of  mere 
flirtation,  though  differing  somewhat  as  to  the  possibility 
of  controlling  all  situations. 

"A  girl  ought  never  to  let  a  man  propose  unless  she 
is  going  to  accept  him,"  pronounced  Isabel  from  the 
depths  of  her  inexperience.  "It  is  always  possible  to 
avoid  it." 

"I  don't  know,"  objected  Jessie,  with  a  recollection  of 
a  surprisingly  sudden  avowal  to  which  she  had  been 
obliged  to  listen  only  a  couple  of  months  before.     "I 

104 


Isabel  Stirling  105 

don't  think  a  girl  can  always  help  it."  She  sighed,  for 
in  her  heart  there  had  been  some  regret  for  a  too  hasty 
dismissal  of  young  Ralph  Everett.  Then  she  laughed. 
"Lily  Brainard  says  it's  good  for  them  to  speak  out  and 
get  it  off  their  minds.  And  before  she  goes  down  to 
the  parlor  to  see  her  visitors  she  always  puts  cologne  on 
her  hands,  for  she  says  there's  no  knowing  when  they'll 
grab  a  hand  and  kiss  it." 

"Oh,  Lily  Brainard!  She's  common,  don't  you  think? 
But  I  must  say,  when  I  used  to  sit  next  her  at  the 
Academy,  I'd  never  have  thought  she  could  grow  up  so 
pretty." 

"I  think  she's  pretty  because  she's  so  determined  to 
be.  She  brushes  that  pale  hair  of  hers  until  she  has  made 
it  shine,  and  she  is  as  white  as  milk  because  she  never 
goes  out  in  the  sun  or  wind  without  being  all  swathed 
up.     And  she  dresses  beautifully." 

"Even  Lydia  admires  the  way  she  dresses,"  said  Isabel. 
"And  she's  critical.  But  Cassie  Maiden  dresses  just  as 
well  and  is  so  much  nicer.  Jessie,  why  do  you  suppose 
she  doesn't  come  to  see  me?" 

It  was  a  question  which  was  troubling  Isabel  and  she 
was  inclined  to  be  a  little  hurt  as  days  passed  into  weeks 
and  still  Cassie  did  not  come.  And  then  one  day  there 
came  a  note,  inviting  her  to  a  picnic.  That  was  the  way 
in  which  Cassie  had  decided  to  cut  the  knot. 

Isabel,  knowing  of  no  reason  for  declining  the  invita- 
tion, wrote  a  prompt  acceptance.  That  she  should  do 
this  on  her  own  responsibility  was  in  accordance  with 
her  idea  of  a  young  lady,  out  of  school.  Moreover,  in 
the  Ptolemy  of  those  days,  all  the  young  people  were 
allowed  a  good  deal  of  freedom.  It  was  a  consideration 
of  another  sort  which  sent  her  to  consult  her  stepmother 
before  sending  her  note. 

"Do  you  think  it  would  be  too  soon?"  she  asked 
wistfully. 

Lydia  gave  her  a  keen  glance.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  the  girl  knew  of  no  other  reason  than  her  mourning 
for  refusing?    However,  so  much  the  better.    Now  that 


106  Isabel  Stirling 

the  Maidens  had  become  important  people  Lydia  found 
the  old  feud  very  tiresome. 

"I  don't  think  Aunt  Eliza  would  have  wanted  you  to 
give  up  all  pleasures  on  her  account,"  she  said  sweetly. 
"You  have  accepted  it  already,  haven't  you?"  She  was 
not  unaware  of  the  note  in  Isabel's  hand,  but  chose  not 
to  know  that  it  was  still  unsent.  Thus  would  she  save 
her  credit  if  William  should  find  out. 

William,  however,  remained  in  ignorance,  for  Isabel 
found  no  encouragement  to  talk  to  him  of  her  doings 
and,  by  good  luck,  Cassie  called  for  her  at  an  hour  when 
he  was  out  making  parochial  visits. 

Isabel  little  suspected  the  trepidation  with  which  her 
friend  drove  up  to  the  parsonage.  For  Cassie  did  not 
think  it  probable  that  Dr.  Stirling  knew  of  the  expedi- 
tion. It  was  not  in  keeping  with  what  the  Maidens  knew 
of  him  that  he  should  accept  an  olive  branch.  Peter 
Maiden  had  consented  cheerfully  when  she  asked  him  if 
she  might  invite  the  parson's  daughter. 

"But  she  won't  come,"  he  said,  "unless  she  does  it  on 
the  sly.    Are  you  going  to  pick  her  up  at  the  Giffbrds'?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  do  anything  on  the  sly,"  said  Cassie. 
"If  she  says  she'll  come,  I'm  going  right  up  to  the  door 
to  get  her.  I  can  only  hope  that  her  father  won't  come 
out  and  make  it  unpleasant." 

So  up  to  the  door  she  came,  with  a  brave  clatter  of 
horses'  hoofs  and  jingle  of  smart  harness.  Lydia,  con- 
sidering discretion  to  be  the  better  part  for  herself,  kept 
out  of  the  way.  She  would  have  liked  to  go  to  the 
door  and  show  herself  friendly,  but  William  must  be 
considered. 

And  so  Isabel,  shy  but  ecstatic,  found  herself  sitting 
beside  Lansing  Fordyce  on  the  middle  seat  of  the 
Maiden's  three-seated  "democrat."  In  front  of  her  was 
Aunt  Mary,  self-sacrificingly  pairing  off  with  the  coach- 
man, with  whom  however,  she,  from  time  to  time, 
indulged  in  friendly  conversation.  On  the  back  seat  was 
Cassie,  who  had  chosen  for  her  companion  Joe  Glover, 
one  of  the  beaux  of  Ptolemy. 


Isabel  Stirling  I07 

It  was  not  altogether  from  generosity  that  Cassie  put 
Isabel  beside  Lansing  Fordyce,  the  young  man  whose 
acquaintance  she  had  made  while  visiting  a  schoolmate 
in  New  York,  and  who  had  now  come,  ostensibly  to  visit 
his  native  village.  He  was  stopping  at  the  hotel,  but 
spent  most  of  his  time  at  her  father's  house,  which  had 
once  been  his  grandfather's.  She  thought  he  was  inclined 
to  take  his  welcome  too  much  for  granted. 

Fordyce  was  a  descendant  of  the  old  Lansing  family 
of  Ptolemy ;  a  family  who  had  gone  downhill  financially, 
while  still  thinking  much  of  themselves  socially.  He  was 
trying  to  establish  a  law  practice  in  New  York  and 
intended  to  restore  the  family  prestige  in  his  own  person. 
He  meant  to  climb  and  to  climb  high;  and  had  visions 
of  the  Supreme  Bench.  It  was  hinted  among  his  friends 
that  he  would  not  be  averse  to  a  rich  marriage  provided 
he  could  find  a  wife  who,  while  well-dowered,  would  be 
pleasing.  In  point  of  fact,  he  had  always  held  that  a 
man  would  climb  better  unhampered ;  but  he  was  tempted 
by  an  alliance  which  indubitably  would  speed  his  way 
up  to  the  heights.  Not  only  was  Cassie  well-dowered 
and  distinctly  pleasing,  but  Peter  Maiden,  besides  his 
solid  financial  standing,  happened  to  be  in  a  position  to 
help  an  ambitious  young  lawyer  along  in  his  profession. 
The  affair  seemed  worth  pursuing. 

Fordyce  had  found  himself  fairly  well  amused  by  the 
diversions  of  a  country  town  as  long  as  they  were  en- 
livened by  Cassie's  running  commentary  and  was  feeling 
more  and  more  certain  that  a  continuation  of  Cassie's 
commentary  would  make  a  life  with  her  more  amusing 
than  a  life  lived  alone.  He  was  therefore  annoyed  with 
her  for  putting  him  off  with  a  bread-and-butter  miss  for 
a  long  drive.     He  felt  that  he  was  going  to  be  bored. 

Isabel  blushed  beautifully  when  he  helped  her  into  the 
wagon,  but  her  response  to  the  introduction  had  a  certain 
self-conscious  awkwardness.  She  had  moments  of  being 
painfully  aware  of  her  lack  of  social  experience.  It  was 
Aunt  Mary  who  put  her  at  her  ease — Aunt  Mary,  turning 
around  from  the  front  seat  to  greet  her.     Isabel  leaned 


108  Isabel  Stirling 

forward  eagerly  and,  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment, 
kissed  the  soft  cheek. 

"I've  never  forgotten  you!"  she  cried. 

The  older  woman's  face  flushed  with  pleasure.  "Nor 
I  you.    You  were  a  little  darling." 

Aunt  Mary  had  a  sweet  face  and  childlike  eyes,  and 
even  Fordyce,  who  found  her  speech  and  accent  a  little 
grude,  had  to  admit  that  she  was  a  dear. 

Isabel  leaned  back,  sighing  with  satisfaction  at  the 
meeting;  intensely  conscious,  too,  of  the  young  man  beside 
her.  For  was  he  not  the  outward  and  visible  sign  that 
she  had  at  last  emerged  from  childhood?  Did  he  not 
represent  Life,  the  World,  all  those  things  concerning 
which  she  was  so  vividly  interested.  She  recognized 
instantly  a  difference  between  him  and  the  boys  of  whom 
she  had  been  so  scornful.  When  he  had  alighted  from 
the  carriage  and  stood  waiting  for  her  as  she  came  down 
from  the  porch,  she  had  taken  in  his  whole  appearance; 
his  height,  his  slenderness,  his  erect  carriage  and  well- 
fitting  clothes,  his  thin  face  with  its  deep-set  dark  eyes, 
his  well-shaped  mouth  and  aquiline  nose  and  firm  chin — 
surely  this  was  the  stuff  out  of  which  a  romantic  hero 
might  be  made.  After  some  moments,  during  which 
conversation  had  been  difficult,  she  wished  to  reassure 
herself  on  that  point.  Forgetting  her  embarrassment, 
she  raised  her  eyes  to  look  at  him  with  a  grave,  consider- 
ing gaze,  the  naive  scrutiny  of  a  child.  "Now  what  the 
deuce  does  she  mean  by  that?"  said  Fordyce  to  himself, 
as  he  met  her  look.  He  was  unused  to  such  unsophis- 
tication  and  also  unused  to  just  that  kind  of  searching 
regard. 

Still  irritated  at  Cassie,  and  feeling  now  a  certain  faint 
curiosity  and  amusement,  he  undertook  to  draw  Miss 
Innocence  out,  stimulated,  it  might  be,  by  such  fugitive 
glimpses  of  smiling  lips  and  shining  but  mysterious  eyes 
as  a  broad-brimmed  hat  permitted  him.  The  hat  was 
provocative.  It  had  a  tantalizing  way  of  throwing  into 
sudden  eclipse  all  but  the  tip  of  a  pink  ear,  or  the  curve 
of  a  softly  rounded  chia    Under  its  shadow  Isabel  was 


Isabel  Stirling  109 

palpitating  delightfully,  although  vexed  at  her  inability 
to  converse  worthily.  Gone  were  the  flashes  of  wit 
which  scintillated  in  the  imaginary  conversations  of  her 
daydreams,  for,  as  she  was  learning,  real  conversations 
don't  run  along  the  lines  of  imaginary  ones.  She  had 
yet  to  learn  that  mere  mortal  man  is  well  content  to  hear 
his  own  voice  while  feasting  his  eyes  on  a  beauty  which 
beams  in  more  or  less  intelligent  response  to  that  voice. 
From  the  back  seat  Cassie  looked  on  at  their  absorption 
with  some  humor.  Cassie  was  very  broad-minded  for 
a  mere  girl.  .    .    . 

Late  that  night  Aunt  Mary  went  into  Cassie's  room. 
The  girl  was  sitting  up  in  bed  reading. 

"Why  did  you  do  it?"  asked  the  aunt,  sitting  down 
on  the  bed. 

Cassie  looked  up  from  her  book.     "Do  what?" 

"Why,  put  Mr.  Fordyce  with  Isabel  and  let  them  flirt 
like  that.  Neither  of  them  looked  at  another  person  the 
whole  time.  And  you  know  he  came  here  on  your 
account." 

Cassie  laid  the  book  down.  "He  has  never  said  a 
word  of  the  sort,  Aunt  Mary.  And  suppose  he  did  ?  His 
motives  may  have  been  mixed." 

"Oh,  Cassie!" 

"Dear  auntie !  Must  I  marry  the  first  man  who  comes 
along?  I  think  Pappy  needs  me  a  little — especially  now 
that  you  are  going  to  leave  us.  And  I  do  assure  you,  it's 
all  right.  My  heart  hasn't  even  got  a  crack  in  it.  It's 
as  whole  as  ever."  She  put  her  arm  around  her  aunt's 
neck.  "Go  to  bed,  you  old  dear.  You  think  we  must 
all  be  in  love  because  you  are.  Oh,  you  dear!"  She 
drew  Aunt  Mary's  face  down  to  her  own.  "It  was 
wicked — wicked — for  you  to  give  up  all  your  young  years 
to  us — and  never  to  let  us  know." 

They  kissed  each  other  good-night  and  Aunt  Mary  left 
the  room,  only  half  satisfied.  "Whatever  we  do,"  sighed 
Cassie  to  herself,  "we  cannot  give  her  back  those  years." 
And  then — "I  wonder  whether  I  shall  ever  care  for  any- 
body quite  as  much  as  Aunt  Mary  cares  for  her  preacher." 


no  Isabel  Stirling 

Then  she  picked  up  her  book  and  tried  to  be  interested 
in  it. 

But  Isabel,  after  the  intoxicating  experience  of  several 
hours  spent  in  the  society  of  an  agreeable  man  who 
apparently  had  no  eyes  or  ears  but  for  her — unsophis- 
ticated Isabel  lay  for  hours  with  wide-open  eyes  and 
burning  cheeks.  Life,  it  seemed,  was  beginning.  Life, 
and  perhaps  love.    How  she  longed  for  that  adventure ! 


XXI 

Fordyce  had  been  somewhat  spoiled  by  women  and  did 
not  look  for  difficulties.  Cassie's  unexpected  elusiveness, 
so  different  from  her  former  frank  comradeship,  annoyed 
and  even  bored  him.  He  still  wished  to  marry  her,  but 
permitted  himself  to  diverge  for  the  moment  from  the 
path  of  his  intention  into  a  byway  of  amusement.  Pres- 
ently the  amusement  became  absorbing. 

Aside  from  the  fact  that  Isabel  was  so  extraordinarily 
good  to  look  at,  she  piqued  his  curiosity.  Was  she  or 
was  she  not  as  naive  as  she  appeared?  There  were 
moments  when  he  thought  her  only  a  prudish  child, 
other  moments  when  he  thought  her  a  coquette,  as  when, 
afraid  to  meet  his  eyes,  she  showed  him  the  beauty  of  her 
dark  lashes.  If  she  had  been  stupid  he  would  soon  have 
decided  that  the  puzzle  was  not  worth  solving,  but  she 
was  far  from  stupid.  And  then  the  sheer  beauty  of  her ! 
It  blossomed  marvelously  from  day  to  day,  almost  from 
hour  to  hour,  before  his  eyes.  Within  three  days  he  had 
thrown  caution  behind  him;  before  a  week  was  over  he 
had  effectively  barred  his  way  to  any  further  wooing 
of  Cassie  Maiden;  by  the  end  of  a  fortnight  he  found 
that  he  must  either  run  away  from  temptation  or  succumb 
to  it. 

As  for  Isabel,  she  went  headlong  into  the  adventure. 
Her  code  of  honor  would  have  forbidden  her  to  play 
with  affections  which  were  preempted,  but  she  had  heard 
no  gossip  and  had  not  a  qualm.  She  took  it  all  quite 
seriously,  believed  it  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight  on  both 
sides  and  gloried  in  the  romance  of  it.  How  wonderful 
it  was!  She  so  romantically,  delightfully  young,  and 
already  in  love  and  beloved!     How  interesting  life  was 

111 


H2  Isabel  Stirling 

— how  absorbingly  interesting  was  Isabel  Stirling  to 
herself ! 

And  yet,  unsophisticated  as  she  was,  she  was  saved 
from  self -betrayal  by  the  deep  instinct  of  reserve  which 
underlay  her  superficial  frankness.  Moreover,  in  her, 
while  the  spirit  was  awake  and  alert,  the  senses  were 
still  slumbering.  She  was  enclosed  in  a  prickly  hedge 
of  dislike  for  physical  contact;  and  the  greater  the  com- 
motion in  her  soul,  the  more  quickly  did  she  draw  back 
into  maiden  fastnesses.  When  Fordyce  shook  hands  with 
her,  she  withdrew  her  hand  quickly.  She  did  not  like 
him  to  come  too  near  to  her.  Perhaps  it  was  not  strange 
that  he  failed  to  see  how  complete  was  his  conquest. 

Of  course  Ptolemy  talked.  There  was  indeed,  quite 
a  buzz  of  excitement  over  the  affair  and  much  surmise 
as  to  how  Dr.  Stirling  would  take  it  if  it  should  really 
prove  to  be  serious.  Lydia,  much  pleased  with  Isabel's 
conquest,  as  she  termed  it  to  herself,  made  the  way  of 
the  young  people  easy.  It  was  only  William  Stirling 
who  remained  unconscious.  In  fact,  one  evening  he  came 
into  the  parlor  and  assumed  that  the  young  man's  visit 
was  intended  for  himself.  In  vain  Lydia  manoeuvred 
to  get  him  out  of  the  room. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  two  men  met  in  a  friendly 
way.  Fordyce  rather  admired  the  redoubtable  parson 
as  a  fine  specimen  of  a  certain  type ;  for  William  Stirling, 
when  he  chose  to  be  friendly,  was  not  without  his  attrac- 
tion. On  this  occasion  he  did  so  choose.  His  mother  and 
the  young  man's  grandmother  had  been  friends  in  the 
old  days.  He  accepted  the  visit  as  an  act  of  respect  to 
himself  and  found  pleasure  in  a  conversation  which, 
while  safely  neutral,  refreshed  a  mind  grown  weary  of 
its  groove. 

"I  admire  your  father  extremely,"  said  Fordyce  to 
Isabel  next  day. 

He  could  not  have  pleased  her  better,  for  stitL  as  in 
her  childhood,  her  heart,  always  a  little  sore  where  her 
father  was  concerned,  took  solace  in  the  comfort  offered 
to  her  pride. 


Isabel  Stirling  113 

"I  like  so  much  to  have  you  say  that,"  she  replied, 
but  there  was  a  wistfulness  in  her  smile  which  gave  his 
heart  a  curious  twist. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  rustic  bench  under  the  apple- 
tree,  while  he  sat  a  little  apart,  on  the  lowest  of  the 
shaky  old  steps.  He  got  up  and  came  and  sat  beside 
her  and  her  quick,  unconscious  movement  to  leave  a 
space  between  them  was  so  characteristic  that  it  amused 
him.  He  smiled,  looking  down  at  her  with  the  glance 
which  always  made  her  heart  beat  quicker. 

Neither  of  them  spoke  for  a  moment.  Fordyce,  after 
some  hours  of  reflection  overnight,  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  flee  from  temptation.  He  had  forced  himself  to  con- 
sider his  career,  in  which  the  minister's  daughter  could 
hardly  help  him.  He  told  himself  that  he  must  climb 
unhampered,  even  if  he  had  to  climb  unhelped.  But  he 
was  annoyed  that  it  should  cost  him  an  effort  to  announce 
his  approaching  departure.  At  last  he  said,  in  a  casual 
tone: 

"My  vacation  is  over.  I  have  to  go  back  to  town 
to-morrow." 

Isabel  made  a  startled  exclamation.  She  flushed 
and  then  paled.  "Why,  I  thought — "  she  began,  and 
stopped. 

"Yes,  I  hoped  to  stay  another  week,  but  business  has 
come  up  unexpectedly." 

Isabel  sighed,  looked  at  the  ground  for  a  moment, 
then  lifted  unclouded  eyes  to  his.  It  was  dreadfully  sad 
to  nave  him  go,  but  he  would  be  coming  back.  She  never 
dreamed  of  distrusting  him,  and  that  he  had  as  yet  said 
no  actual  word  of  love  did  not  make  the  least  difference. 
She  pulled  herself  together  courageously. 

"Well,  it  isn't  to-day,"  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh. 

Fordyce  was  at  once  relieved  and  piqued.  Certainly, 
he  didn't  want  her  to  care  too  much,  yet  she  might  have 
cared  a  little — since  he  was  finding  it  so  hard  to  leave 
her.  However,  as  it  seemed  that  he  had  only  himself 
to  reckon  with,  he  could  enjoy  his  last  day  with  a  clear 
conscience. 


114  Isabel  Stirling 

"I'm  sorry  about  that  camp-meeting  expedition  to- 
night/' he  said  abruptly.     "Rather  a  bore,  I'm  afraid." 

But  in  her  own  mind  Isabel  thought  it  would  be  a 
better  way  of  spending  the  evening  than  to  stay  in  the 
parlor  at  home,  with  Father  coming  in  and  taking  the 
visit  to  himself — glad  as  she  was  to  have  him  appreciated. 
It  was  an  excursion  which  had  been  arranged  some  days 
before.  They  were  all  to  have  an  early  tea  at  the 
Giffords',  to  allow  time  for  the  ten-mile  drive,  and 
Isabel  was  to  return  there  for  the  night.  And  there 
would  be  the  long  evening  in  each  other's  company.  No 
one  thought,  by  this  time,  of  any  other  arrangement  of 
a  party.  Oh,  there  were  hours  and  hours  yet — and  who 
could  tell?  She  quaked  deliciously,  and  was  willing  to 
put  off  the  superlative  moment,  never  doubting  that  it 
would  come. 


XXII 

It  was  still  daylight  when  they  started  on  their  drive, 
Fordyce  and  Isabel  side  by  side  on  the  back  seat  of  the 
surrey  which  followed  the  Maldens's  democrat,  but  it  was 
quite  dark  when  they  arrived  at  their  destination.  Guided 
by  the  fitful  light  of  fires  and  torches,  the  laughing, 
chattering  party  threaded  their  way  through  the  trees 
and  past  rows  of  slightly  built  shanties  which  had  been 
put  up  for  the  accommodation  of  those  persons  who  were 
spending  the  week  on  the  camp-meeting  ground.  Pres- 
ently the  fires  flamed  more  brightly  and  they  lowered 
their  voices  as  they  came  to  the  edge  of  the  cleared  space 
set  apart  for  the  services ;  a  space  filled  with  long  wooden 
benches  and  dominated  by  a  high,  roughly  constructed 
platform  of  planks,  lighted  by  blazing  torches  set  at  the 
four  corners.  i 

By  daylight  there  could  have  been  little  that  was  im- 
pressive in  the  scene,  but  with  the  coming  on  of  darkness 
all  was  changed.  Set  at  intervals  among  the  trees  and 
forming  a  cordon  around  the  assemblage  of  worshipers, 
were  large,  altar-like  tables  made  of  slabs  of  slate  brought 
from  the  neighboring  quarry  and  supported  on  pedestals 
of  irregularly  piled  stones.  On  these  altars  the  huge, 
fantastically  twisted  roots  of  giant  trees  were  blazing, 
thrusting  out  from  the  flames  tortured,  protesting  and 
strangely  distorted  limbs.  Above  them  the  thick  foliage 
of  the  trees  showed  strangely  white  in  the  bright  light. 
These  uncanny  fires  gave  an  indescribable  wildness  to 
the  scene.  The  stage  seemed  set  for  a  heathen  orgy, 
rather  than  for  a  scene  of  Christian  worship.  Overhead, 
the  moon  shone  fitfully  through  scurrying  clouds,  while 

115 


n6  Isabel  Stirling 

beyond,  the  wavering  firelight  gave  glimpses  of  mysteri- 
ous depths  of  forest — a  forest  whose  narrow  boundaries 
could  not  be  discerned  in  the  obscurity. 

Within  the  circle  of  fire  sat  the  large  congregation, 
row  on  row,  on  the  hard  wooden  benches,  and  on  the 
high  platform  facing  them  sat  the  ministers,  visible  in 
the  light  of  the  torches. 

Isabel  and  Fordyce  hung  back  for  a  moment  and  were 
at  once  separated  from  their  companions. 

"This  is  tremendous !"  exclaimed  Fordyce  in  a  low 
tone.  "I  didn't  suppose  they  had  such  a  sense  of  the 
picturesque — or  have  they  hit  it  by  a  happy  accident  ?" 

He  drew  her  hand  in  his  arm  as  they  advanced  a  step 
or  two.  "The  ground  is  uneven,"  he  said.  "Better  let 
me  help  you.,, 

"Wait !"  she  said,  drawing  her  hand  away. 

The  service  had  begun  and  the  audience  was  just  rising 
for  the  singing  of  a  hymn.  In  a  moment  the  old,  familiar 
"Rock  of  Ages"  rose  in  a  great  volume  of  sound  which 
stirred  the  pulses.  Isabel  and  Fordyce  stood  motionless 
until  the  singing  had  ceased. 

Fordyce  drew  a  long  breath.  "That  was  a  thrill  worth 
while,"  he  began.  "Not  music  exactly,  but  fine — that 
voice  of  a  multitude  singing  in  unison."  Then,  looking 
down  at  her  face,  with  its  unreserved  and  sensitive  re- 
sponse to  the  emotion  of  the  crowd,  his  own  measured 
and  sophisticated  appreciation  seemed  banal.  He  forgot 
to  be  cautious. 

"Come !"  he  said,  and  again  taking  her  hand  and  laying 
it  on  his  arm,  he  led  her  back  into  the  shadow. 

"But  where  ?"  asked  Isabel,  bringing  herself  back  with 
an  effort.    "I  thought " 

"You  don't  want  a  sermon,  do  you?  Anything  after 
that  hymn  would  be  anticlimax,  it  seems  to  me." 

"We  have  lost  the  others."  She  was  now  clinging  to 
his  arm  in  a  way  quite  unlike  herself  and  was  shivering 
with  excitement. 

"Are  you  cold  ?"  he  asked  with  surprise. 

"No — oh,  no.    But  the  singing  and  those  weird  fires — 


Isabel  Stirling  1 17 

I  suppose  it's  the  thrill."  She  broke  off  with  a  wavering 
little  laugh. 

"Come !"  he  said.  "Don't  let's  look  for  the  others  just 
yet.    Let's  go  and  sit  down  somewhere." 

He  found  a  seat  for  her  in  a  grassy  spot  under  a  tree 
and  sat  down  beside  her.  Isabel  gave  a  long,  soft  sigh 
of  content.  The  night  was  warm  and  still  except  for  an 
occasional  puff  of  wind.  Through  the  branches  of  the 
trees  one  got  glimpses  of  a  troubled  sky  and  a  moon  that 
seemed  to  be  flying  through  clouds.  From  the  other  side 
of  the  leaping  fires  came  the  droning  voice  of  the 
preacher.  A  Biblical  phrase  came  back  to  her  memory 
and  unconsciously  she  spoke  half  aloud.  "In  outer  dark- 
ness," she  said.  Then  she  smiled  to  herself.  What  did 
darkness  or  light  matter  ?  And  then  a  silence  fell  between 
them — a  silence  at  the  same  time  sweet  and  alarming;  so 
alarming  that  she  cast  about  for  something  to  say,  fool- 
ishly trying  to  put  off  what  she  was  sure  would  be  the 
most  thrilling  moment  of  her  life. 

"I'm  afraid  Father  thought  I  was  going  to  listen  to 
the  preaching,"  she  said. 

Fordyce  smiled  in  the  darkness.  "You  can't  expect  me 
to  repent  having  enticed  you  away  from  it.  Not  but  what 
I  like  to  see  a  woman  care  for  her  religion." 

"Oh,  but  that  isn't  it,"  said  Isabel,  who  must  be  honest 
whether  he  approved  or  not.  "The  trouble  with  me  has 
always  been  that  I  am  not  religious.  I  care,  you  know — 
but  I  can't." 

"You  care — but  you  can't."  He  spoke  in  the  tender 
and  amused  tone  which  one  uses  to  a  child.  "Do  you 
know  you  are  a  delicious  child — the  oddest  compound  of 
pagan  and  puritan." 

"I'm  not  a  child,"  protested  Isabel,  half  wounded.  "I'm 
entirely  grown  up  and  nearly  as  tall  as  you  are.  And  I 
can't  remember  the  time  when  religion  hasn't  been  a 
serious  matter.  I've  never  been  able  to  feel  as  they  say 
I  ought,  and  all  through  my  childhood  I  was  almost 
frightened  to  death.  That  I'm  not  frightened  now  must 
be  because  I'm  so  much  wickeder." 


n8  Isabel  Stirling 

He  laughed.  "Your  childhood  doesn't  sound  exactly 
happy." 

"No,  I  wasn't  happy.  I  had  no  mother  and  my  grand- 
mother died.  I  thought  nobody  cared  for  me,  except  to 
save  my  soul  and  see  that  I  didn't  tear  my  clothes.  And 
now  lately  I  find  that  Aunt  Eliza  did  care.  If  I  had 
known  it  I  might  have  been  nicer  to  her,  you  know." 

This  was  a  side  which  she  had  not  shown  him  before 
and  there  was  something  irresistibly  pathetic  in  her  artless 
account  of  her  childhood.  For  a  moment  he  had  a  glimpse 
of  her  as  she  did  not  know  herself ;  the  innocence  and  the 
courage;  the  seeking  mind  and  the  adventurous  spirit; 
and  the  loneliness  of  a  heart  turned  back  on  itself. 

After  all,  he  was  but  a  man,  and  a  young  man.  He 
did  not  attempt  to  reason  with  himself.  She  seemed  to 
him  just  then  the  one  thing  in  the  world  worth  while  and 
all  his  cautious,  worldly-wise  plans  but  rubbish,  fit  for 
the  scrap-heap.    He  wanted  her. 

Yet  at  first  he  found  no  words  to  say.  They  sat  silent 
and  motionless,  while  in  the  distance  the  voice  of  the 
preacher  droned  on,  and  overhead,  all  unnoticed,  the 
clouds  grew  blacker,  the  moon  became  invisible,  and 
the  wind  blew  strongly  through  the  branches.  Far  in 
the  distance,  but  coming  nearer,  the  thunder  rumbled. 

"Isabel !"  said  Fordyce  at  last.  In  the  darkness  his 
hand  reached  for  hers  and  closed  over  it.  Her  heart  beat 
wildly — almost  audibly.  The  excitement,  the  silence,  the 
trembling  expectation  of  what  he  was  about  to  say, 
seemed  more  than  she  could  bear.  She  felt  that  her 
fingers  were  betraying  her,  they  were  so  cold  and  trem- 
bling, but  she  could  not  draw  them  away.  Suddenly  a 
vivid  flash  of  lightning  showed  them  each  other's  faces, 
pale,  both  of  them,  gazing  wide-eyed  at  each  other,  off 
their  guard  in  the  darkness ;  seen  in  a  flash,  blotted  out  in 
an  instant.  Immediately  came  a  tremendous  crash  of 
thunder.    The  very  earth  seemed  to  shake. 

The  great  moment  was  past.  Fordyce  grasped  her 
hand  more  strongly,  a  businesslike,  masterful  grip  this 


Isabel  Stirling  119 

time.  "Come!"  he  said,  pulling  her  to  her  feet.  "We 
must  get  out  of  this." 

He  hurried  her  along  breathlessly,  hardly  knowing 
whither,  but  intent  on  getting  away  from  the  trees. 
"There  may  be  a  house  where  we  can  get  shelter,"  he 
said. 

The  rain  was  now  beginning  to  fall  in  big,  separate, 
splashing  drops.  The  lightning,  flashing  in  lurid  sheets, 
gave  them  glimpses  of  figures  with  outstretched  hands 
and  of  faces  with  exclamatory  mouths;  and  in  the  in- 
stant's flash  all  of  these  excited  figures  seemed  to  be 
standing  stock-still  in  attitudes  of  mad  haste.  When 
Fordyce  recalled  the  scene  afterwards  he  thought  of  pic- 
tures of  the  Last  Judgment.  In  the  midst  of  it  all,  Isabel 
had  a  vanishing  view  of  Aunt  Mary's  face,  sweet  with  a 
sort  of  motherly  concern. 

There  was,  at  first,  a  confused  noise  of  shouts  and 
exclamations,  and  then  the  rain  came  down  in  rushing 
torrents  and  no  other  sound  could  be  heard  but  that  and 
the  crashing  thunder.  Fordyce  hurried  Isabel  toward  the 
road  and,  when  she  stumbled  over  a  stone,  he  put  his 
arm  around  her  and  rushed  on  with  her.  On  his  part  the 
action  was  absolutely  without  sentiment,  but  the  girl,  who 
had  been  dashed  from  a  delicious  dream  into  a  wild  night- 
mare, passed  now  into  a  new  phase  of  excitement. 
Thunder,  lightning  and  rain  became  small  matters.  In- 
tensely conscious  of  his  touch,  a  new  sense  awoke  within 
her  and  she  thrilled  in  response  to  it.  She  was  madly 
happy. 

In  another  moment  they  had  gained  the  shelter  of  a 
house  by  the  roadside.  Here  all  was  confusion.  A  throng 
of  bedraggled  people  huddled  in  the  porch.  Inside,  the 
house  was  crowded  with  other  refugees,  their  dripping 
garments  leaving  puddles  on  the  floor,  everybody  talking 
at  once — a  wet  babel.  Amid  this  confusion  Fordyce  spied 
Aunt  Mary  and  made  his  way  to  her. 

'Will  you  look  after  Miss  Stirling,"  he  said,  "while  I 
go  and  see  if  I  can  find  out  what  has  become  of  the 
horses." 


120  Isabel  Stirling 

"We  brought  our  coachman,"  replied  Aunt  Mary. 
"He  will  have  looked  out  for  them." 

But  he  was  gone  and  she  turned  to  the  girl.  "Why, 
you  poor  child !"  she  exclaimed.  "You  are  wet  through 
and  through." 

"Am  I?"  said  Isabel  vaguely.  She  was  quite  uncon- 
scious of  the  fact  as  she  looked  at  Aunt  Mary  with  wide, 
bright  eyes.    In  her  face  was  a  rapt,  ecstatic  look. 

"My  dear!"  said  Aunt  Mary. 

It  was  all  like  a  dream  to  Isabel ;  the  jostling,  exclaim- 
ing crowd,  the  tray  of  hot  coffee  which  was  being  carried 
about,  the  tall  thin  man  in  black  who  came  up  to  them 
and  reproved  "Mary"  for  not  coming  in  sooner. 

"I  had  to  see  what  I  could  do  for  those  frightened 
people,"  said  Aunt  Mary  apologetically. 

"You  never  think  of  yourself,"  said  the  man  tenderly. 

Isabel  scarcely  heard  the  words,  but  was  sensitive  to 
the  tenderness  of  the  tone.  Something  in  his  voice  roused 
an  old  memory.  She  looked  up  at  him  and  knit  her 
brow  in  a  startled  effort  to  remember.  The  old  basement 
room  in  the  Methodist  church  came  back  to  her  and  the 
kind  man  who  told  her  that  God  was  like  a  father.  Yes, 
it  certainly  was  he.    How  strange  everything  was.    .    .    . 

They  started  for  home  at  last,  a  somewhat  silent  party. 
Isabel,  seated  beside  Fordyce,  was  in  that  state  of  beati- 
tude which  holds  articulate  thought  in  abeyance.  Acutely 
conscious  of  his  nearness,  she  had  no  desire  that  he  should 
speak  to  her  in  the  presence  of  others.  She  hardly  heard 
what  anyone  said,  only  rousing  herself  to  answer  vaguely 
when  someone  chanced  to  ask  her  a  direct  question. 
Fordyce  said  little  to  her,  but  leaned  forward  from  time 
to  time  and  made  some  remark  to  Jessie  and  Joe  Glover 
in  front  of  them.  For  his  part,  whatever  regrets  might 
assail  him  in  the  future,  his  present  feelings  were  divided 
between  wonder  at  having  lost  his  head  so  completely  and 
thankfulness  that  the  forces  of  nature  had  intervened  to 
keep  him  from  committing  an  egregious  folly.  That  it 
would  still  be  easy  to  commit  that  folly  he  fully  realized, 
and  resolved  to  give  himself  no  further  opportunity. 


Isabel  Stirling  121 

What  he  did  not  so  fully  realize  was  his  cruelty.  So  much 
Isabel's  aloofness  had  done  for  her. 

At  the  Giffords'  gate  Fordyce  helped  her  and  Jessie  to 
alight  and  went  with  them  up  the  long  walk  to  the  door, 
calling  back  to  ask  Joe  Glover  to  wait  for  him  a  moment. 
The  fanlight  above  the  door  showed  a  dim  light,  but  all 
the  front  windows  were  in  darkness.  In  the  back  sitting- 
room  Mrs.  Gilford  was  waiting  before  an  open  fire,  to 
cosset  the  two  girls.  Jessie,  running  ahead  of  the  others, 
hastily  turned  the  knob  of  the  door,  preparing  to  efface 
herself  as  quickly  as  might  be. 

"Good-night/'  she  said,  as  she  slipped  through  the  half- 
open  door. 

"But  it's  good-bye,"  called  Fordyce  after  her.  "Aren't 
you  going  to  tell  me  good-bye  ?" 

"You  really  go  by  the  early  train  ?"  said  Jessie,  linger- 
ing reluctantly. 

"I  really  must,"  he  replied,  adding:  "You've  all  been 
so  good  to  me — everybody  has — and  it  warms  one's  heart 
immensely  to  come  back  to  the  place  where  one  was 
born." 

Jessie  refused  to  be  kept.  With  a  hasty:  "Of  course 
we  shall  see  you  again  often — good-bye,"  she  disappeared 
into  the  semi-darkness  of  the  house. 

Fordyce  and  Isabel  faced  each  other.  Her  soul  was  in 
her  eyes.  The  moment  had  come,  and  she  was  ready  for 
it.  But  he  did  not  see  her  eyes.  He  saw  her  only  as  a 
silhouette  against  the  lesser  darkness. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said.  "I  mustn't  keep  you  out  here. 
It  has  been  so  pleasant."  Other  words  came  to  his  lips. 
He  repressed  them.  He  had  taken  her  hand  in  a  light 
clasp.  He  dropped  it  quickly.  The  temptation  was  too 
great  to  be  dallied  with.    "Good-bye,"  he  said  again. 

"Good-bye,"  she  faltered,  dazed  by  the  abruptness  of 
his  leave-taking  and  the  dryness  of  his  tone. 

He  pushed  the  door  open  for  her,  and  she  found  her- 
self within  the  hall,  listening  to  his  retreating  footsteps. 


XXIII 

Hard  as  it  was  to  accept  the  decree  of  an  unbelievably 
cruel  fate,  there  was  a  finality  about  that  chilly  leave- 
taking  which  forbade  illusion.  True,  there  were  long 
hours  when  Isabel  sat  dreaming  of  the  letter  which  she 
might  receive  by  any  mail;  of  the  guest  who  might  be 
ushered  in  with  any  ringing  of  the  doorbell ;  of  an  ecstatic 
reunion  where  no  explanations  would  be  necessary.  But 
she  knew  in  her  heart  that  there  would  be  no  such  letter, 
no  such  reunion.  There  were  wakeful  hours  in  the  night 
when  she  lay  wondering  whether  the  fault  had  been  her 
own,  and  tingled  with  shame  at  the  thought  that  she  had 
perhaps  made  herself  too  cheap.  Or  perhaps,  in  her 
dread  of  self -betrayal,  she  had  seemed  too  indifferent  and 
he  had  thought  she  did  not  care. 

But  there  was  another  mood  which  was  of  more 
service  to  her.  Although,  as  yet,  more  perplexed  by 
Fordyce  than  angry  with  him,  she  was  bitterly  angry 
with  Fate,  and  entirely  rebellious  that  anything  so  un- 
toward should  have  happened  to  her.  "For  I  am  so 
young,"  she  said  to  herself.    "I  haven't  even  begun  yet." 

She  had  stood,  it  seemed,  at  the  entrance  to  a  world  of 
wonder  and  delight  and  had  seen  before  her  a  vista  of 
the  joyous  adventure  which  is  the  birthright  of  youth; 
and  then,  when,  palpitating  with  excited  anticipation,  she 
had  essayed  a  step  forward,  she  had  stumbled  and  fallen 
and  had  hurt  herself  so  grievously  that  henceforth,  as  she 
feared,  she  must  go  through  life  with  a  sorry  limp,  her 
adventure  ended  before  it  had  begun.  "I  will  not,  I  will 
not!"  she  said.  "It's  inconceivable  that  I  should  have 
to  be  unhappy.    I  won't  be  made  miserable !" 

With  intense  determination  and  absolute  self-absorp- 

122 


Isabel  Stirling  123 

tion  she  set  out  to  rescue  herself  from  unhappiness.  At 
first,  indeed,  there  seemed  little  that  she  could  do  except 
to  laugh  and  talk.  She  talked  incessantly  to  Jessie,  to 
Mrs.  Gifford,  to  all  the  young  people  of  her  set,  even  to 
Lydia. 

She  was  the  more  determined  because  there  was  her 
world  to  face.  Everybody  had  been  so  excited  over  the 
affair  and  now  people  were  making  sly  allusions,  taking 
it  for  granted  that  she  and  Fordyce  were  engaged.  But 
from  that  first  moment,  when  cold  and  dazed,  she  stum- 
bled into  Mrs.  Gifford's  sitting-room,  trying,  even  then, 
to  hold  up  her  head  and  act  as  if  nothing  were  the  matter, 
she  was  sure  that  Jessie  and  her  mother  understood. 
Sometimes  she  had  a  momentary  longing  to  throw  her 
arms  around  Mrs.  Gifford's  neck  and  sob  her  heart  out 
on  that  motherly  breast.  Instead,  she  went  on  talking 
and  laughing  with  a  determined  gayety. 

It  was  Lydia  who  was  the  worst  of  all — Lydia,  with 
her  arch  speculations  as  to  when  Mr.  Fordyce  would 
return,  and  her  watchfulness  of  the  mail.  Dr.  Stirling 
usually  went  to  the  post-office  himself,  and  his  wife  was 
always  ready  to  take  the  letters  from  his  hand.  She  re- 
ceived but  few  herself,  but  Isabel's  schoolmates  wrote  to 
her. 

"Nothing  important  to-day,"  she  would  say,  when  her 
husband  was  out  of  hearing.  "Too  bad !  But  he'll  write 
soon.    Unless  our  little  girl  treated  him  badly." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  Isabel 
would  say,  laughing  with  apparent  carelessness. 

"Tut,  tut!"  with  a  warning  finger  upraised.  "Don't 
tell  fibs!" 

With  all  her  curiosity,  Lydia  could  not  make  out 
whether  the  girl  really  cared.  As  for  Isabel,  she  hardly 
knew  which  she  dreaded  most,  the  ones  who  didn't  under- 
stand, or  those  two  dear  souls  who  did.  In  her  extremity 
she  turned  to  her  father,  the  only  person  about  her  who 
remained  absolutely  unconscious  that  there  was  anything 
which  required  understanding.  He  was  not  very  re- 
sponsive to  her  awkward  efforts  at  conversation  and 


124  Isabel  Stirling 

suffered,  rather  than  encouraged  her  to  accompany  him 
on  an  occasional  walk,  but  on  the  whole  he  was  not  dis- 
pleased. If  he  had  been  less  shut  up  in  himself,  or  per- 
haps less  awkwardly  shy,  or  if  Isabel  had  been  less  self- 
absorbed,  they  might  now  have  come  into  some  sort  of 
normal  relation;  but  William  Stirling  never  did  know 
how  to  get  on  with  young  people,  his  own  daughter  least 
of  all,  and  Isabel  was  not  thinking  of  her  father,  but  of 
herself.  Nevertheless,  his  very  remoteness,  the  neutral 
character  of  his  companionship,  helped  her  somewhat. 
Unfortunately  even  this  unsatisfactory  solace  was  but 
short-lived. 

Chancing  to  pass  through  the  hall  one  morning, 
William  Stirling  came  upon  his  daughter  studying  a  slip 
of  paper  which  she  held  in  her  hand — a  cheque,  as  he 
immediately  saw,  noticing  it  because  it  was  connected 
with  a  duty  which  he  had  upon  his  conscience  to  fulfil. 
In  fact,  it  represented  a  quarter's  income,  with  the  addi- 
tion of  the  trifling  sum  left  over  after  the  expenses  con- 
nected with  Aunt  Eliza's  illness  and  death  had  been  paid. 
Dr.  Brenton,  the  trustee  of  the  little  estate,  had  given  him- 
self the  pleasure  of  leaving  it  with  her,  stopping  at  the 
door  in  his  old  buggy,  as  he  passed  on  his  round  of  morn- 
ing visits.  To  John  Brenton  the  mere  sight  of  the  girl 
was  a  pleasure. 

When  her  father  came  upon  her  she  was  gazing  at 
the  cheque  with  a  tender  remembrance  of  Aunt  Eliza  and 
yet  with  a  dimpling  pleasure  at  being  the  possessor  of  so 
considerable  a  sum.  She  had  been  faithful  to  her  promise 
and  the  three  hundred  dollars  which  her  aunt  had  given 
into  her  hand  had  scarcely  been  touched,  but  now  she 
could  spend  something.  Nothing,  since  Fordyce  went 
away,  had  so  raised  her  spirits.  At  the  sight  of  her 
father  she  started  and  involuntarily  the  hand  holding  the 
precious  piece  of  paper  dropped  to  her  side.  When  he 
desired  her  to  go  with  him  to  his  study  she  obeyed  un- 
comfortably, because  he  had  never  asked  her  there  except 
for  something  unpleasant.  What  she  now  dreaded  was  a 
religious  appeal,  for  which,  she  felt,  it  was  about  time. 


Isabel  Stirling  125 

He  seated  himself  in  his  desk  chair  and  she  stood 
facing  him,  making,  if  he  would  have  allowed  himself  to 
see  it,  a  lovely  picture  against  the  dull  background  of 
time  worn  furniture  and  shelves  of  leather-bound  theo- 
logical books.    But  he  was  intent  on  the  matter  in  hand. 

"What  is  the  amount  of  your  yearly  income  from  your 
aunt?"  was  his  unexpected  beginning. 

"About  six  hundred  dollars,"  she  replied  readily. 

"That  puts  it  in  your  power  to  do  a  great  deal  of 
good." 

"Yes,  Father."  She  was  half  ashamed  that  hitherto 
she  had  thought  only  of  herself  in  connection  with  this 
money. 

"Have  you  thought  about  this  and  decided  what  pro- 
portion of  your  income  you  will  give  away?" 

"Why — no.  You  see  there  will  be  such  a  lot  of  things 
that  I  want.    But  of  course  I  don't  want  to  be  stingy." 

"I  don't  think  you  will  need  so  very  much,"  he  replied. 
"My  house  is  your  home.  You  don't  need  to  save  money, 
for  at  my  death  there  will  be  a  little  for  you  and  your 
mother.  Of  course  I  shall  allow  you  to  purchase  your 
own  clothes  under  her  guidance,  but  there  must  be  no 
foolish  display  of  finery." 

He  paused,  but  Isabel  did  not  at  once  reply.  She  was 
looking  at  him  with  an  expression  which  he  didn't  quite 
like ;  as  if  he  and  she  were  on  equal  ground.  She  was,  in 
fact,  considering  what  his  interference  might  mean. 

"I  might  pay  tithes,"  she  said  at  last,  "like  the  people 
in  the  Bible.  That  would  be  sixty  dollars,  and  I'll  give 
it  to  whatever  you  think  best." 

He  had  meant,  in  discussing  the  matter  with  her,  to 
treat  her  with  kindness  and  consideration  and  had  ex- 
pected appreciation  and  deference.  Her  independence 
irritated  him.  "You  must  give  a  great  deal  more  than 
that,"  he  said  sharply.  "Do  you  think  that  with  all  the 
need  in  the  world  I  shall  let  you  waste  money  on  your- 
self?" 

"But  Father!"  she  exclaimed  in  dismay. 

"I  might  perhaps  hope,"  continued  her  father,  "that  in 


126  Isabel  Stirling 

doing  some  good  your  own  heart  would  be  turned  to 
those  matters  of  religion  toward  which  you  are  so 
strangely  indifferent." 

Isabel  sighed  impatiently.    If  only  he  wouldn't  preach! 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  vexed  perplexity. 
Why  was  she  so  different  from  the  children  of  his 
parishioners  who  were  wont,  on  arriving  at  the  proper 
age,  to  come  into  the  fold.  Her  obduracy  seemed  to  him 
a  personal  affront.  Truly,  his  foe  was  of  his  own  house- 
hold.   All  the  more  need,  then,  for  a  strong  hand. 

"I  see  more  than  ever,"  he  went  on,  "that  you  cannot 
be  left  to  your  own  devices.  I  shall  allow  you  twenty- 
five  dollars  a  quarter  for  yourself.  The  rest  you  will 
turn  over  to  me.  In  order  that  you  may  have  some  free- 
dom of  choice  I  shall  give  you  a  list  of  the  objects  which 
I  consider  most  deserving.  Among  them  you  may 
choose.  We  shall  avoid  ostentation.  When  you  have  in- 
dicated the  sum  to  be  given  in  any  direction  I  will  make 
the  donation  in  the  name  of  an  unknown  friend." 

Lydia,  listening  on  the  other  side  of  the  door,  could 
hardly  control  her  mirth  at  William's  simplicity,  even 
though  her  laughter  was  mixed  with  dismay.  Isabel 
could  see  nothing  but  tragedy  in  the  monstrous  proposi- 
tion. 

"I  can't  possibly  manage  on  a  hundred  dollars  a  year," 
she  said  breathlessly.  "And  Aunt  Eliza  didn't  mean  me 
to." 

"Twenty-five  dollars  a  quarter  was  what  I  always 
allowed  your  aunt  for  your  clothes." 

"But  she  gave  me  more.  And  I  was  only  a  little  girl 
when  you  started  it.  And  you  don't  know  how  expensive 
everything  is  now." 

"I  know  that  it  is  possible  for  you  to  be  neatly  and 
suitably  dressed  on  a  small  sum.  Take  a  lesson  from 
your  mother.    She  always  looks  properly  dreesed." 

In  the  midst  of  her  trouble  Isabel  laughed.  To  her 
father  it  seemed  the  last  touch  of  insolence.  "If  you 
think—-"  she  began. 

On  her  sofa  on  the  other  side  of  the  door  Lydia 


Isabel  Stirling  127 

trembled.  But  Isabel  checked  herself.  If  Lydia  had  her 
secrets  it  was  not  for  her  to  betray  them.  She  gazed  at 
her  father  with  an  appearance  of  calmness,  although  her 
heart  was  beating  fast. 

"Father,  I  cannot  agree  to  it." 

William  Stirling  could  hardly  believe  his  ears.  "What 
do  I  hear  you  say  ?"  he  said  sternly.  "Never  speak  to  me 
in  that  way  again.  You  have  been  away  from  me  too 
long.  Now  I  wish  you  to  endorse  that  cheque  and  give 
it  to  me." 

Isabel's  heart  was  beating  more  violently  than  ever, 
but  she  did  not  lower  her  eyes  and  she  tightened  her 
clasp  of  the  cheque.  "But  I  must  pay  for  my  things," 
she  said. 

"What  things?" 

"The  mourning  I  wear  for  Aunt  Eliza." 

"Isn't  it  paid  for?    How  did  you  get  it?" 

"Lydia  bought  the  things  for  me."  She  used  the 
name  quite  unconsciously — it  came  so  much  more  easily 
than  the  other;  but  it  seemed  that  he  had  not  heard  it 
before. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Why,  she  offered  to  lend  me  the  money  and  said  I 
could  pay  when  mine  came." 

"Are  you  aware  that  you  called  your  mother  by  her 
first  name?" 

"Why,  she  asked  me  to.    She  likes  it  better." 

"It's  indecent!  You  must  have  misunderstood  her. 
Hereafter  you  will  call  her  by  her  proper  title." 

"Yes,  Father,"  said  Isabel,  gaining  confidence  as  the 
subject  of  the  discussion  was  shifted.  "But  I  must  pay 
her  for  my  clothes.  And  I  shall  not  have  so  very  much 
left,  for  there  was  a  good  deal  to  get." 

"Very  well."  He  paused.  He  never  interfered  with 
his  wife's  money  matters.  It  was  a  matter  of  pride. 
"Then  this  time  I  shall  leave  you  to  settle  those  affairs — 
but  you  are  never  to  incur  any  more  debts,  or  to  impose 
on  your  mother's  kindness." 

Isabel  pursued  her  advantage.     "Besides  that,"   she 


128  Isabel  Stirling 

said,  "I  want  to  get  a  stone  for  Aunt  Eliza's  grave.  I 
don't  know  how  much  such  things  cost,  but  Grandma's 
and  the  others  are  very  simple  and  this  would  want  to  be 
like  them." 

It  was  impossible  to  find  fault  with  this  pious  wish  and 
William  Stirling  only  remonstrated  to  the  extent  of  say- 
ing that  such  a  duty  would  devolve  on  him. 

"No,"  persisted  Isabel.  "Aunt  Eliza  left  me  her 
money.  She — adopted  me.  I  want  to  do  it  for  her, 
Father." 

Again  impossible  to  find  fault  with  her.  "I  will  see 
about  it,"  replied  her  father,  somewhat  ambiguously. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Isabel,  taking  his  reply  quite 
simply.  "Of  course  I  wanted  you  to  see  about  it,  for  I 
don't  know  how." 

Again  that  tone,  as  of  equal  to  equal.  William  Stirling 
resented  it,  but  found  nothing  to  say  to  it.  "Pay  your 
mother  for  your  clothes,"  he  said  stiffly.  "And  here- 
after you  will  place  your  money  in  my  hands,  as  I  have 
directed  you.    Now  you  may  go." 

For  the  moment  Isabel  was  the  victor,  but  she  felt 
no  elation;  only  a  bitter  sense  that  no  one  in  the  world 
cared  for  her  and  that  she  must  look  out  for  herself.  She 
cashed  her  cheque  and  paid  her  score,  finding  herself,  as 
she  had  anticipated,  with  only  a  moderate  amount  left 
over ;  perhaps  enough  to  pay  for  Aunt  Eliza's  headstone. 
Aunt  Eliza's  private  gift  was  almost  all  that  she  would 
have  to  depend  on  if  her  father  carried  out  his  monstrous 
plan. 

Lydia,  who  was  almost  as  anxious  as  Isabel  that  so 
much  good  money  should  not  be  diverted  to  missionaries, 
ventured  to  give  the  girl  a  word  of  advice.  It  might 
easily  be  supposed  that  her  husband  had  mentioned  the 
matter  to  her. 

"Can't  you  see,  darling,"  she  said,  "that  if  you  could 
only  make  up  your  mind  to  join  the  church,  dear  Father 
would  have  more  confidence  in  you?" 

"In  what   way?"   asked   Isabel,   wondering  whether 


Isabel  Stirling  129 

Lydia  too,  was  going  to  talk  to  her  about  religion.  That, 
she  felt,  would  be  more  than  she  could  bear. 

"Why  should  it  be  so  impossible?"  pursued  Lydia. 
"Surely  that  dear  little  head  of  yours  doesn't  harbor 
Doubts?"  In  those  days  any  questionings  of  the  accepted 
doctrines  of  Calvinism  were  alluded  to  as  Doubts,  with 
a  very  large  D.  "You  are  a  little  obstinate,  Fm  afraid. 
But  if  you  could  realize  how  different  your  dear  father's 
attitude  would  be — how  much  more  he  would  be  willing 
to  entrust  to  you " 

"How  much  more — what?" 

"Why,  he  would  treat  you  as  a  grown-up  person.  You 
could  take  care  of  your  own  money.  I  might  help  you 
about  that " 

"Oh!"  said  Isabel.  "I  can't  sell  myself."  A  remark 
which  Lydia  did  not  soon  forgive. 

"Sell  yourself!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  horror. 
"How  you  misunderstand  me.  Surely  you  ought  to  be 
able  to  unite  with  your  father's  church  without  such  a 
thought  as  that." 

"No,  mother,  I  cannot,"  replied  Isabel  sadly  enough. 

"Mother!"  mimicked  Lydia  reproachfully. 

"Father  doesn't  wish  me  to  call  you  Lydia." 

"The  dear  father !  He  is  so  anxious  that  I  should  have 
all  my  dignities.  Well,  it  will  just  have  to  be  your  little 
name  for  me  when  he  isn't  present  to  be  disturbed  by  it." 

This  was  Lydia's  second  mistake  that  morning.  Isabel 
looked  at  her.  "No,"  she  said  slowly.  "If  I  can't  say 
it  in  his  presence  I  think  I'd  better  not  say  it  at  all." 


XXIV 

Isabel  was  homesick  for  her  school.  Since  she  could 
not  go  back  there  as  a  pupil,  she  wondered  whether  she 
knew  enough  to  teach  anything  and  even  considered  writ- 
ing to  Miss  Pryor  about  it.  Meantime,  as  she  really  did 
not  feel  proficient  in  any  branch  of  knowledge,  she 
thought  she  would  like  to  study  something — it  didn't 
much  matter  what. 

Most  of  the  intellectually  aspiring  women  of  Ptolemy 
were  going  up  the  hill  to  university  lectures.  She  would 
go  too.  Yet  she  wanted  something  more  personal  than 
lectures,  a  teacher  who  would  be  interested  in  her.  Al- 
though she  didn't  quite  know  it,  she  wanted  a  teacher 
who  would  appreciate  her  cleverness. 

Meantime,  Mrs.  Gifford  was  saying  to  herself:  "I 
must  find  that  poor  child  another  beau.  It's  the  only 
efficacious  cure.  I  do  wish  she  were  allowed  to  dance. 
It's  such  good  exercise  and  clears  out  the  mind  so." 

With  the  opening  of  the  fall  term  of  the  university  and 
the  inrush  of  students,  it  seemed  that  another  beau  would 
not  be  a  difficult  thing  to  find.  The  village  was  rousing 
itself  to  the  activities  of  a  university  town.  The  streets 
were  pervaded  by  young  men;  shop  windows  exhibited 
their  newest  wares  in  the  way  of  neckties  and  other  manly 
vanities — a  modest  display,  for  those  students  of  the 
early  days  were  few  of  them  addicted  to  fine  raiment. 
The  girls  of  Ptolemy  came  out  in  all  the  glory  of  new 
fall  hats ;  and  the  middle-aged  women  were  again  plod- 
ding up  the  hill  to  the  campus  with  their  note-books.  For 
the  moment,  Isabel  put  off  joining  them. 

Edmund  Gifford  was  at  home  again,  engaged  in  the 
duties  of  an  assistant  professor.  Isabel  had  felt  curious 
to  see  Edmund,  the  big  brother  toward  whom  she  and 
Jessie  had  both  felt  so  respectful  when  they  were  chil- 

130 


Isabel  Stirling  131 

dren.  Jessie  worshiped  him  still;  so  did  his  mother; 
and  his  father,  although  pretending  to  criticize  him  from 
time  to  time,  was  almost  as  transparent  in  his  affection 
and  admiration. 

At  first  sight,  Isabel  was  disappointed.  To  a  girl  of 
nineteen,  the  outer  man  counts  immensely.  Her  ideal 
was  tall  and  slender.  Edmund  was  a  young  man  of 
medium  height,  rather  short  than  tall,  with  a  figure 
which,  in  its  present  plumpness,  promised  increasing 
weight.  A  luminous,  straightforward  glance  and  a  fine 
breadth  and  fullness  of  brow  gave  distinction  to  a  face 
which  was  not  otherwise  remarkable.  The  charm  which 
he  was  universally  conceded  to  possess  lay  perhaps  in  a 
combination  of  intellectual  power  and  boyish  whim- 
sicality. He  was  equally  ardent  in  the  pursuit  of  amuse- 
ment and  the  pursuit  of  knowledge;  and  as  he  amused 
himself  in  company  and  studied  in  solitude  he  was  some- 
times misjudged  by  the  superficial.  He  liked  people — a 
great  many  people,  of  many  different  sorts.  When  how- 
ever, he  happened  not  to  like  them,  he  took  no  pains  to 
conceal  his  antipathy. 

Isabel  presently  felt  his  charm  and  envied  Jessie. 
Would  that  he  had  been  her  own  brother!  She  was 
greatly  entertained  by  him  and  entirely  at  her  ease  with 
him.  She  even  said  to  Jessie  one  day  that  he  was  as 
good  as  a  girl  to  have  around.  Jessie  had  the  tact  to  re- 
frain from  repeating  the  remark. 

Edmund,  for  his  part,  was  much  impressed  by  Isabel's 
beauty.  "She  is  one  of  the  people,"  he  told  his  mother, 
"whose  business  is  not  to  talk,  but  just  to  let  you  look  at 
them." 

"I  think  she'll  have  something  to  say  for  herself  yet," 
said  Mrs.  Gifford. 

"Doubtless — when  she  has  lived  a  little  longer.  That 
will  be  lucky  for  her,  for  then  she  may  not  be  so  good 
to  look  at." 

Meantime,  the  Giffords  were  getting  ready  for  their 
annual  "party."  A  joyous  excitement  pervaded  the  house 
and  extended  to  the  parsonage.    In  spite  of  her  mourning 


132  Isabel  Stirling 

Isabel  was  to  attend  the  party.  Mrs.  Gifford  would  not 
listen  to  a  refusal  and  Lydia  argued  that  in  the  case  of 
a  parishioner  and  next-door  neighbor,  they  must  put  aside 
their  own  feelings  and  show  themselves  friendly.  Even 
Dr.  Stirling  always  showed  himself  at  these  festivities. 
There  was  to  be  no  dancing,  the  crowd  being  too  great, 
so  that  there  would  be  nothing  to  offend  his  principles. 

"What  can  I  wear?"  Isabel  asked  excitedly  of  Lydia. 
She  had  thought  that  her  stepmother  would  be  interested. 

But  Lydia,  intent  on  her  own  preparations,  did  not 
offer  any  assistance.  Her  enthusiasm  over  the  girl's 
clothes  had  waned  since  William  had  imposed  such  severe 
restrictions  on  the  spending  of  money. 

"Your  black  grenadine  will  do,"  she  said. 

A  black  grenadine  for  one's  first  party!  And  an  old 
one  at  that. 

"Can't  I  have  Miss  Ford  come  and  make  me  a  dress?" 
she  asked  wistfully. 

"Your  father  wouldn't  wish  me  to  lend  you  money 
again,"  said  Lydia.  "It's  too  bad,  but  if  you  can't  do 
what  your  father  wishes,  you  will  have  to  learn  to  do  the 
best  you  can  with  what  he  allows  you." 

Isabel  went  up  to  her  own  room  with  head  up  and 
tightened  lips.  It  seemed  now  as  if  she  might  spend  a 
little  of  her  secret  fund,  but  when  she  thought  it  over 
there  were  difficulties.  She  was  unwilling  to  let  Lydia 
know  that  she  had  extra  money  to  spend,  since  she  had 
promised  Aunt  Eliza  to  keep  the  secret,  and  she  could 
not  have  a  dress  made  just  now  without  telling  Lydia  how 
she  had  managed  it.  At  any  rate,  she  would  first  see 
what  she  could  do. 

Meantime,  Jessie  displayed  her  own  new  frock,  a 
much  ruched  white  tarletan,  with  its  two  or  three  thin 
under-petticoats.  "What  are  you  going  to  wear?"  she 
asked. 

"I  think  I'll  have  a  white  dress  too,"  said  Isabel. 

She  came  home  and  got  out  the  thin  white  India  mull 
frock  which  Aunt  Eliza  had  had  made  for  the  June 
festivities  at  the  school.    It  did  not  billow  so  diaphanously 


Isabel  Stirling  133 

as  Jessie's  did,  and  where  hers  was  cut  so  as  to  show 
her  shoulders  and  arms,  this  came  primly  up  to  the 
throat  and  down  to  the  wrists.  Isabel  held  it  up  and 
looked  at  it  and  then  laid  it  on  the  bed  and  searched  in 
her  box  of  treasures  for  the  key  of  her  mother's  trunk. 
She  had  never  yet  looked  into  it,  deterred,  as  a  child  of 
twelve,  by  a  sort  of  awe,  and  later  by  f orgetfulness.  Now 
surely  the  time  had  come.  She  looked  long  at  her 
mother's  portrait  and  then  went  up  into  the  attic,  pulled 
the  little  old  trunk  out  from  under  the  eaves,  and  put  the 
key  in  the  lock.  A  moment  she  hesitated  before  raising 
the  lid.  Grandma,  she  thought,  must  have  packed  the 
things  up  after  her  mother  died.  She  wondered  whether 
anyone  had  touched  them  since. 

There  was  not  so  very  much  there.  Some  narrow- 
skirted  gowns  of  soft,  pale  tints,  a  few  undergarments 
delicately  trimmed  with  linen-cambric  ruffles  edged  with 
fine  lace,  a  half-finished  baby's  dress  with  a  rusted  needle 
sticking  in  it.  Isabel  picked  that  up  and  kissed  it.  At 
the  bottom  was  a  flat  pasteboard  box  on  which  was 
written:  "Lace  which  belonged  to  Bell's  mother."  How 
nice  of  Grandma  to  let  her  know  that !  She  locked  the 
trunk  and  carried  the  box  down  to  her  room,  unopened. 

For  a  time  she  held  it  on  her  lap  and  made  no  move- 
ment to  open  it.  She  could  think  of  nothing  but  her 
young  mother  and  the  pathetic  little  trunk.  At  last,  how- 
ever, she  untied  the  string  and  raised  the  cover  of  the 
box  and  then  the  sight  of  the  fine  old  lace,  yellowed,  but 
clean,  stirred  her  interest  and  hope.  She  lifted  out  the 
pieces,  handling  them  delicately  and  reverently.  In  one 
corner  was  a  tiny  jeweler's  box  which,  when  opened, 
revealed  a  little  old-fashioned  pearl  brooch;  such  a  de- 
lightful treasure  trove.  Without  delay  she  set  herself 
to  remodel  the  white  mull  gown. 


XXV 

The  good  people  of  Ptolemy  made  a  point  of  going  late 
to  parties.  When  invited  at  eight  o'clock  they  considered 
that  etiquette  demanded  that  they  should  not  appear  be- 
fore ten.  The  university  people,  on  the  other  hand, 
arrived,  mostly  on  foot,  at  about  the  hour  specified,  so 
that  the  rooms  were  well  filled  when  the  Stirlings  ar- 
rived, Lydia  clinging  to  her  husband's  arm,  her  face 
wreathed  in  smiles,  her  costume  a  chastened  replica  of 
the  latest  fashion  plates.  Being  in  mourning,  she  wore 
black,  but  its  somebreness  was  relieved  by  a  touch  of 
glittering  jet  and  a  collar  and  barbe  of  point  lace.  Her 
sandy  hair,  somewhat  assisted  from  outside  sources,  was 
coiled  in  massive  braids  of  which  not  a  hair  was  out  of 
place.  Behind  her  came  Isabel  in  her  white  mull  gown. 
But  what  a  changed  white  gown !  She  had  cut  out  the 
neck  of  the  bodice  in  what  is  known  as  a  V,  and  her 
delicately  rounded  white  throat  rose,  slim  and  gracefully 
long,  out  of  the  filmy,  creamy  folds  of  a  fine  old  lace  fichu, 
fastened  at  the  breast  with  the  pearl  pin.  From  sleeves, 
cut  off  at  the  elbow,  hung  wide,  soft  lace  ruffles.  Beyond 
that  modest  display  of  her  fairness  she  had  not  dared  to 
go,  lest  she  draw  down  her  father's  wrath.  Her  head, 
poised  like  a  flower  on  its  stem,  was  crowned  with  the 
waving  masses  of  her  bright  chestnut  hair.  In  that  day 
of  chignons,  an  artistic  instinct  had  impelled  her  to  try 
the  experiment  of  drawing  it  all  up  to  the  top  of  her 
head  in  a  soft,  glossy  mass  of  puffs,  and  when  she  had 
once  seen  herself  that  way,  even  the  desire  to  look  like 
other  girls  was  not  strong  enough  to  induce  her  to  change 
it.  In  fact,  a  greater  contrast  to  the  other  girls,  with 
their  low  coiffures  and  dresses  off  the  shoulders  could 
hardly  be  imagined.  She  looked  rather  like  a  beautiful 
portrait  of  their  grandmothers'  time.  Very  self-conscious, 

134 


Isabel  Stirling  135 

very  fearful  lest  after  all,  she  wasn't  "just  right,"  she 
was  yet  unaware  of  her  extreme  conspicuousness  and 
did  not  guess  the  buzz  of  comment  which  went  around 
the  rooms  as  she  walked  through  them. 

"Who  is  that  wonderful  girl?"  asked  Mrs.  Bellenden, 
touching  her  husband  on  the  arm.  Mrs.  Bellenden  was 
the  wife  of  the  army  officer  detailed  to  the  military 
professorship. 

Major  Bellenden  didn't  know,  but  Peter  Maiden,  hear- 
ing the  question,  turned  around  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye.  "She's  the  daughter  of  the  Reverend  Dr.  Stirling, 
who  hates  us  all  so  cordially,"  he  said. 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Mrs.  Bellenden. 

Jessie,  standing  beside  her  mother  and  "receiving" 
with  great  dignity,  had  managed  to  whisper  an  ecstatic 
word  as  Isabel  went  past.    "You  look  perfectly  lovely!" 

"Oh,  do  I  look  right?"  Isabel  whispered  back.  "Mother 
said  I  looked  too  theatrical  and  that  she  wouldn't  have 
let  me  come  this  way  if  she  had  known." 

"Didn't  she  know?  Didn't  she  help?"  Jessie  made 
great  eyes. 

"She  thought  I'd  wear  my  black  grenadine,  as  she  told 
me  to  do." 

Isabel  passed  on,  pushed  by  the  crowd.  When  she 
stopped  to  speak  to  Jessie,  her  father  and  Lydia  had 
left  her  behind  and,  at  a  loss  what  to  do,  she  drew  bade  a 
few  steps  and  stood  still.  She  had  never  before  been 
present  at  any  festivity  so  big  and  it  seemed  to  her  very 
grand  and  very  exciting — the  large,  brilliantly  lighted 
rooms,  the  crowd  of  people,  all  laughing  and  talking,  and 
beyond  the  buzz  of  voices  and  dominating  them,  the 
strains  of  an  unseen  orchestra.  It  was  crude  music,  but 
to  the  girl  it  added  the  last  touch  of  gayety  and  enchant- 
ment. For  the  first  time  since  Fordyce's  departure  she 
forgot  that  she  had  to  try  to  be  happy.  When  Edmund 
Gifford  presently  came  towarS  her  she  greeted  him  with 
a  radiant  smile. 

"Isn't  it  lovely!"  she  exclaimed. 

Edmund  smiled  back  at  her.  They  were  about  the  same 


136  Isabel  Stirling 

height  and  looked  with  a  level  glance  into  each  other's 
eyes.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  that  she  was  the  loveliest 
thing  there,  but  he  refrained.  Her  apparent  unconscious- 
ness was  another  charm. 

Before  the  arrival  of  the  guests  his  mother  had  said 
to  him,  quite  seriously:  "There's  one  thing  I  particularly 
want  you  to  do  for  me  to-night.  Find  the  very  nicest 
youth  you  can  for  Isabel  and  if  they  sit  in  a  corner  and 
seem  interested,  let  them  alone.  I  want  that  child  to 
have  a  good  time." 

Edmund  had  already  announced  that  his  mission  in 
life  that  evening  would  be  to  break  up  the  tete-a-tetes 
which  it  was  the  Ptolemy  fashion  to  prolong  for  a  whole 
evening.  Jessie  had  been  liberal  in  the  arrangement  of 
what  she  called  "flirtation  corners." 

"I've  just  come,"  he  now  said  to  Isabel,  "from  making 
the  absurd  couples  play  puss-in-the-corner.  They  have 
all  changed  partners  now." 

"Do  you  suppose  they  like  it?" 

"They  may  as  well  learn  to  like  it,"*he  replied. 

Isabel  laughed.  "Does  everybody  always  do  what  you 
tell  them  to  ?  They'll  play  puss-in-the-corner  back  again 
while  your  back  is  turned." 

"I  dare  say.  I'm  going  to  show  you  our  lions  now. 
Have  you  met  any  of  the  university  people  ?" 

"Not  one,  and  I'm  so  anxious  to." 

"Well,  we'll  just  take  a  general  survey  first."  They 
threaded  their  way  through  the  crowd  and  he  pointed  out 
this  and  that  professor  and  professor's  wife  as  they  went 
along.  "That,"  he  said,  directing  her  glance  to  a  tall  and 
remarkably  thin  man  in  a  corner,  "is  Mr.  Fielding 
Browne,  the  English  professor,  who  has  come  over  to  cast 
in  his  lot  with  us.    He  is  a  very  eminent  man,  you  know." 

The  great  man  was  the  centre — apparently  against  his 
will — of  an  adoring  group  of  middle-aged  women,  and 
every  time  one  of  them  spoke  to  him  he  took  an  instinc- 
tive step  backward. 

"Would  you  like  to  meet  him?"  asked  Edmund. 

She  surveyed  the  group.    "Let's  wait,"  she  said. 


Isabel  Stirling  137 

Her  attention  was  attracted  by  a  bright-eyed  girl  who 
was  talking  vivaciously  and  looking  about  her  with  an 
interested  air.    "Who  is  that?"  she  asked. 

"That's  one  of  the  brides.  They're  as  thick  as  hops. 
These  young  professors  have  most  of  them  been  getting 
married,  poor  chaps.    This  one  is  Mrs.  Boyd." 

"She  looks  so  nice.    But  why  'poor  chaps'  "  ? 

"Oh,  well,  small  salaries  and  high  prices — "  He 
stopped  at  a  gasp  of  astonishment  from  Isabel. 

The  crowd  had  parted  for  a  moment,  giving  them  a 
glimpse  of  an  exquisitely  pretty  little  lady  in  a  white 
gown,  holding  over  her  head  a  rose-colored  sunshade. 

"What — "  exclaimed  Isabel. 

"That  is  Mrs.  Hallett,  another  bride.  The  lights  hurt 
her  eyes — and  she  has  the  courage  of  her  pink  parasol. 
That  very  beautiful  woman  just  beyond  her  is  Mrs. 
Annesley,  the  wife  of  the  president  of  the  university. 
And  behind  her,  talking  to  Mrs.  Stirling,  is  Professor 
Hyde.     He's  rather  an  old  dandy,  isn't  he?" 

Isabel  could  not  have  told  why  she  should  have  been 
so  astonished  to  see  Lydia  just  then.  There  came  to  her 
an  odd  recollection  of  her  stepmother  as  she  had  known 
her  in  the  days  before  she  had  married  Father ;  a  Lydia 
with  more  than  a  touch  of  coquetry.  The  gray-haired 
professor  was  evidently  responsive  to  coquetry.  His 
whole  attitude  and  expression  showed  a  sort  of  formal 
and  heavy  gallantry.  He  looked  emphatically  "a  ladies' 
man."  Isabel  experienced  the  same  sensation  of  disgust 
which  in  the  days  of  her  childhood  overcame  her  at  the 
sight  of  Lydia's  little  ways  with  her  father,  and  her  in- 
genuous face  expressed  her  feelings  so  clearly  that  Ed- 
mund hurried  her  in  another  direction. 

"I  see  a  young  man  whom  I  want  to  introduce-to  you," 
he  said.  "He's  a  student  and  a  very  nice  fellow.  You'll 
let  me  bring  him  ?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Isabel.  She  thought  she  would 
rather  have  stayed  with  Edmund,  but  of  course  she 
couldn't  keep  him. 

The  young  man  was  introduced  as  Mr.  Burton.     He 


138  Isabel  Stirling 

was  a  fair  youth,  not  at  all  shy,  with  a  winning  frankness 
and  an  artless  belief  that  all  the  world  would  be  friendly 
to  him  and  interested  in  him. 

"Will  you  take  Miss  Stirling  out  to  get  some  supper/' 
said  Edmund  to  him  as  he  left  them. 

The  young  man  offered  her  his  arm — they  offered  the 
arm  in  those  days — and  they  made  their  way  to  the 
dining-room.  It  seemed  an  oddly  unfamiliar  room  to  her 
now,  with  the  crowd  of  people  surrounding  the  long 
table  set  out  with  dainties  of  which  she  and  Jessie  had 
already  snatched  tastes  in  the  kitchen.  Ptolemy  had  no 
caterers  then,  and  all  the  parties  were  homegrown,  as  one 
might  say. 

Young  Burton  foraged  with  the  zeal  and  appetite  of 
youth,  bringing  a  laden  plate  for  her  and  another  for 
himself.  Over  the  fried  oysters  and  chicken  salad  he  told 
her  what  a  jolly  place  he  found  Ptolemy,  and  Farrell 
University.  He  started  to  say  "bully,"  but  suppressed  the 
word,  as  being  inelegant.  He  told  her,  too,  what  a  fine 
fellow  his  chum  was.  "Really,  Miss  Stirling,  you  ought 
to  know  him.  He  has  had  a  wonderful  experience  of 
life."  Then  there  were  the  professors  to  talk  about  too. 
They  all  liked  Professor  Gifford — he  was  so  nice  to  a 
fellow  and  didn't  sit  up  aloft  like  some  of  them. 

They  were  enjoying  their  supper  immensely  and  when 
they  had  finished  their  oysters  and  salad  he  took  her 
plate  away  and  went  in  search  of  the  next  course.  Isabel 
could  have  told  him  exactly  what  to  get.  There  was  an 
arrangement  of  sponge-cake  and  blanched  almonds  and 
whipped  cream  which  she  longed  to  taste.  It  hadn't  been 
finished  when  she  was  last  in  the  kitchen  and  it  wouldn't 
be  good  the  next  day,  if  there  were  any  of  it  left  over,  but 
she  was  shy  about  seeming  eager  in  such  a  matter  and 
made  no  allusion  to  it.  He  returned  with  large  portions 
of  ice-cream  and  slices  of  cake  of  various  kinds;  and 
between  spoonfuls  he  entered  on  the  subject  of  his  family. 
His  mother,  it  seemed,  was  about  as  young  as  her  chil- 
dren— "really  doesn't  look  five  years  older  than  Carrie. 
Carrie's  my  sister,  you  know,  and  she's  older  than  me. 


Isabel  Stirling  139 

They'll  be  coming  next  June  to  see  me  graduate.  You 
know  I'm  a  senior.    I  entered  junior." 

To  Isabel  he  seemed  immeasurably  younger  than  her- 
self, although  he  was,  in  fact,  some  years  older.  She 
liked  him  in  a  condescending  way  and  encouraged  his 
prattle. 

When  they  left  the  dining-room  they  met  her  father, 
and  she  felt  a  passing  wonder  as  to  what  he  had  been 
doing  with  himself.  Somehow,  she  could  not  imagine 
him  enjoying  such  an  occasion.  In  fact,  Dr.  Stirling 
was  not  enjoying  himself.  Ordinarily  surrounded  by 
persons  who  deferred  to  him,  and  accustomed,  even  in 
social  intercourse,  to  feel  the  familiar  platform  of  the 
pulpit  under  his  feet,  he  was  half  conscious  now  of  an 
alien,  if  not  an  antagonistic  atmosphere.  To  be  sure,  he 
had  found,  scattered  about  the  rooms,  many  of  his  parish- 
ioners, but  although  greeting  him  deferentially  and  per- 
haps stopping  for  a  brief  interchange  of  remarks,  they 
were  too  frankly  interested -in  the  new  people  to  linger 
long.  He  attributed  his  discomfort  to  a  distaste  for  the 
society  of  the  worldly-minded  and  wanted  to  get  back 
to  his  study. 

"Where  is  your  mother  ?"  he  asked,  stopping  Isabel. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied.  Then,  with  a  sense  that 
the  courtesy  was  required  of  her,  she  somewhat  timidly 
presented  young  Burton,  who  shook  hands  with  the  par- 
son with  unintimidated  friendliness,  yet  with  a  decent 
respect.  He  made  a  pleasant  impression  on  the  older 
man,  who,  however,  was  still  intent  on'  getting  away. 

"It  is  time  for  us  to  be  going,"  he  said  to  Isabel. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  dismayed.  To  her,  the  evening 
was  still  in  its  prime. 

"Let  me  see  you  home  later,"  put  in  young  Burton 
eagerly. 

She  hesitated,  looking  at  her  father.  Fortunately,  that 
was  a  natural  arrangement  in  Ptolemy,  and  he  made  no 
objection,  but  continued  his  search  for  his  wife,  whose 
amusement  he  ruthlessly  cut  short.  Lydia,  greatly  vexed, 
would  have  found  an  outlet  for  her  irritation  by  insisting 


140  Isabel  Stirling 

that  Isabel  accompany  them,  but  by  that  time  the  girl 
could  not  be  found.  She  and  the  boy  had  ensconced 
themselves  in  one  of  the  nooks  so  carefully  arranged  by 
Jessie. 

To  tell  the  truth,  when  Isabel  readily  acceded  to  young 
Burton's  suggestion  that  they  take  possession  of  "that 
jolly  little  corner/'  she  did  so  with  the  recollection  that 
Edmund  had  declared  himself  a  foe  to  corners  and  with 
an  agreeable  anticipation  of  his  interruption.  The  boy 
was  all  very  well  for  a  while,  but  Edmund  was  much 
more  amusing.  Great  was  her  surprise  when  he  let  her 
alone.  The  first  time  he  passed  she  caught  his  eye  and 
smiled.  He  smiled  back,  but  walked  past,  having  in  mind 
his  mother's  injunction;  and  after  that  he  appeared  not 
to  notice  her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  everybody  came 
past,  but  nobody  stopped.  According  to  Ptolemy  eti- 
quette, a  flirtation  corner  was  sacred  from  interruption. 
Isabel  began  to  feel  bored  and  at  last,  seeing  Dr.  Brenton 
standing  near,  talking  to  Cassie  Maiden,  she  announced 
that  she  must  speak  to  him. 

"I'll  introduce  you  to  Miss  Maiden,"  she  added. 

Cassie,  looking  very  smart  in  a  pink  silk  frock,  held 
out  her  hand  as  they  came  up.  "I  haven't  laid  eyes  on 
you  all  the  evening,"  she  said  to  Isabel.  "I  want  to  tell 
you  that  Aunt  Mary  was  married  this  morning." 

"Oh,  not  really !"  exclaimed  Isabel.  "And  oh !  to  Mr. 
Bentley?" 

"Of  course  to  Mr.  Bentley.  Who  else  ?  She  wouldn't 
have  a  wedding  party — only  just  ourselves.  They've 
gone  straight  to  their  parsonage  at  Borrowville.  I  shall 
miss  her  dreadfully." 

"Of  course  you  will."  A  shadow  came  over  Isabel's 
face.  Against  her  will  she  recalled  the  night  of  the  camp 
meeting.  She  was  relieved  when  Cassie  took  young 
Burton  in  hand  and  carried  him  away.  With  Dr.  Brenton 
she  was  always  at  her  ease.  He  seemed  like  a  great 
pillar,  and  there  were  moments  when  she  loved  the  feeling 
of  support.  He  smiled  down  at  her  with  a  quizzically 
affectionate  glance. 


Isabel  Stirling  141 

"You  look  as  if  you  were  playing  at  being  your  young 
great-grandmother  to-night,"  he  said. 

She  looked  down  at  her  dress  and  back  at  him.  She 
had  never  told  him  her  troubles.  "Don't  you  like  my 
looks?"  she  asked. 

"I  always  like  your  looks — only  I  think  that  when  you 
put  on  that  dress  you  ought  to  say  your  prayers  and  try 
to  be  particularly  good,  for  you  could  be  so  very  naughty 
in  it." 

She  rose  to  the  compliment.  "I  wouldn't  mind  being 
naughty,"  she  declared. 

He  laughed,  but  gave  her  a  more  searching  look  from 
under  his  heavy  brows.  He  was  not  unaware  of  the 
shadow  which  had  haunted  her  eyes  and  had  noted  a 
slight  accentuation  of  the  oval  of  her  perfectly  tinted 
face.  "There  will  be  plenty  of  chances,"  he  said.  "The 
town  is  running  over  with  them.  That  was  a  nice  boy 
you  had  with  you." 

"I  don't  like  little  boys,"  she  answered  somewhat  dis- 
dainfully. 

"But  you  ought  to  like  little  boys.  It's  your  business 
to  like  little  boys — at  your  age.  I  see  I  shall  have  to 
give  you  a  tonic." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  half  smiling,  half  wistful.  "I 
like  your  tonics.  Do  you  remember  when  you  and  Norah 
gave  me  the  egg-nog?" 

"Norah  will  make  you  another  egg-nog  whenever  you 
will  come  and  get  it." 

"I'll  come."  She  almost  thought  she  would  like  to  tell 
him  her  money  troubles.    .    .    . 

Long  after  the  party  was  over  and  all  the  lights  were 
out,  she  stood  before  the  glass  in  her  own  room.  "I 
never  looked  like  this  before,"  she  thought.  "I  wish  he 
could  have  seen  me." 

The  face  in  the  glass  smiled  at  her  as  she  remembered 
what  Dr.  Brenton  had  said  to  her.  "I'd  love  to  make  him 
sorry,"  she  said  to  it. 


XXVI 

Between  tsabel  and  her  father  matters  did  not  improve. 
He  was,  she  thought,  even  more  silent  than  he  had  ever 
been,  more  aloof  from  the  life  of  the  house.  Never  did 
she  find  his  eyes  resting  on  her  with  a  look  of  pride  or 
affection.  She  remembered,  with  a  pang,  the  way  Aunt 
Eliza  had  looked  at  her.  Yet  there  was  one  moment 
when  it  seemed  to  her  that  they  might  come  together.  It 
was  when  he  asked  her  to  walk  with  him  to  the  cemetery 
to  see  the  stone  which  had  been  placed  at  Aunt  Eliza's 
grave. 

It  was  a  dismal  morning  in  November.  There  had 
been  a  week  of  rainy  weather  and,  although  it  was  not 
raining  now,  the  sun  was  still  hidden  and  the  wind  blew 
in  chilly  gusts.  The  glory  of  the  autumn  was  over  and 
the  ground  was  strewn  with  wet,  sodden  leaves.  They 
talked  but  little  as  they  went  along.  When  at  last  they 
came  to  the  cemetery  wall  they  did  not  go  in  by  the 
principal  entrance  with  its  iron  gates,  but  by  a  stile  which 
took  them  at  once  into  the  older  part  of  the  enclosure. 
Here  there  were  few  tall  monuments  such  as  bristled  on 
the  hillside  above  them.  Here  and  there,  to  be  sure,  a 
column  raised  itself  above  its  neighbors,  surmounted  per- 
haps with  a  ball  over  which  hung  a  marble  pall,  looking, 
Isabel  thought,  like  a  wet  towel.  But  for  the  most  part 
the  stones  were  small  and  old  and  many  of  the  inscrip- 
tions were  nearly  obliterated.  The  paths  were  over- 
grown, the  place  looked  neglected.  There  were  not  many 
left  to  care  for  this  corner.  Seldom  a  new  grave  was 
dug  here,  although  occasionally  some  wanderer  was 
brought  back  to  lie  among  his  kindred.  Old  trees  waved 
their  branches  above  these  sunken  mounds  and  a  few 
hardy  plants  still  blossomed  from  season  to  season — 
plants  which  had  reverted  to  their  wild  estate. 

142 


Isabel  Stirling  143 

Dr.  Stirling  led  the  way  to  the  family  lot.  Here  at 
least  were  evidences  of  care.  The  grass  had  been  kept 
cut  and  the  stones  all  stood  straight.  How  many  of  them 
there  were!  Aunt  Eliza's  new  headstone  gleamed  out 
white  among  the  others.  Isabel  stood  before  it,  reading 
the  simple  inscription.  Then  her  eyes  turned  to  another 
stone,  not  new,  but  less  old  than  the  rest.  "Sacred  to 
the  Memory,"  so  the  inscription  ran,  "of  Isabel,  Wife  of 
William  Stirling."  And  then  the  dates  of  birth  and 
death.    Only  twenty  years  old,  that  other  Isabel. 

The  girl  had  brought  some  flowers.  She  divided  them 
into  three  portions  and  placed  them  on  the  three  graves — 
Grandma's,  Aunt  Eliza's,  and  her  mother's.  Since  enter- 
ing the  cemetery  neither  she  nor  her  father  had  spoken. 
William  Stirling  stood  a  little  apart,  under  a  great  oak- 
tree.  He  followed  her  movements  with  gloomy  eyes. 
Suddenly  he  began  to  speak  in  a  hard  monotone. 

"I  have  never  been  able  to  understand  the  cult  of  the 
graveyard,"  he  said. 

Isabel  started,  but  quickly  divined  that  he  was  speaking 
to  himself,  rather  than  to  her. 

"If  we  believe  anything  at  all,"  he  went  on,  "we  believe 
that  they  have  put  on  immortality.  And  yet  we  come 
and  hover  about  this  place.  We  bring  our  perishing 
flowers,  to  add  presently  their  suggestion  of  decay.  For 
a  little  while  we  come,  and  then  we  forget — "He  sighed 
deeply  and  relapsed  into  silence,  forgetting  all  that  he 
had  intended  to  say.  For  he  had  indeed  planned  to  im- 
prove the  occasion. 

Isabel  stood  still  and  waited,  not  daring  to  appear  to 
have  heard  what  he  said,  but  feeling  amazingly  comforted 
by  it.  For  surely,  if  Father  had  that  feeling  about  the 
place  it  was  not  wicked  for  her  to  hate  it  too.  Her  heart 
turned  to  him  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt 
that  they  might  understand  each  other — he  and  she,  the 
last  of  their  kin.  She  counted  the  graves  and  a  shiver 
seized  her.  There  were  so  many  of  them  dead,  and  so 
few  living.  She  turned  a  white  face  to  her  father  and  he, 
recalling  himself,  seemed  at  last  to  realize  her  presence. 


144  Isabel  Stirling 

"The  stone  was  put  in  place  a  week  ago/*  he  said,  in 
his  usual  tone,  "but  the  weather  has  not  been  fit  for  you 
to  come  here  before." 

"Thank  you  for  bringing  me,"  she  replied,  drawing 
a  little  nearer  to  him. 

"It  is  our  joint  memorial,"  said  her  father. 

She  put  out  her  black-gloved  fingers  and  touched  his 
arm  gently.    "That  is  so  good  of  you,"  she  murmured. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  slight  softening  of  expres- 
sion. 

"Father !"  she  said,  gathering  up  her  courage.  "I  have 
never  known  anything  at  all  about  my  mother.  Aunt 
Eliza  was  always  away  teaching  and  knew  her  so  little. 
I — it  isn't  always  easy  to  ask  you — but  here " 

She  broke  off  and  gazed  at  him  wistfully.  Here — her 
eyes  seemed  to  say — here  there  is  no  question  of  any  third 
person.    You  and  I  are  here  with  our  own. 

His  face  was  set  in  lines  of  gloom.  In  her  voice,  her 
manner,  her  glance,  she  had  been  suddenly  like  her 
mother.  Her  appeal  was  natural  and  he  recognized 
her  claim. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "it  is  right  that  you  should  know 
her  as  far  as  may  be  possible."  He  paused,  not  knowing 
how  to  continue,  gathering  himself  for  the  effort. 

Isabel  understood  that  it  was  as  difficult  for  him  to  go 
on  as  it  had  been  for  her  to  open  the  subject.  With  a 
little  more  experience,  a  little  more  tact,  she  would  have 
remained  silent,  but  with  a  thought  of  helping  him,  she 
said  softly:     "Don't  I  ever  remind  you  of  her?" 

"You  are  absolutely  unlike  her,"  he  said  harshly,  with 
quick  jealousy. 

Then  there  was  silence  again.  Isabel,  wounded  by  the 
repulse,  was  still  able  to  feel  sorry  for  him.  She  pitied 
him  just  then,  more  than  she  pitied  herself.  She  waited 
for  him  to  speak,  and  waited  in  vain.  He  could  not 
bring  himself  to  begin.  At  last,  with  a  sigh,  she  said 
gently: 

"Perhaps  you  would  rather  talk  to  me  some  other  time. 
See,  it  is  raining  now." 


Isabel  Stirling  145 

Loth  to  appear  to  be  watching  him,  she  occupied  her- 
self with  her  umbrella,  which  she  unfurled  and  put  up. 

"It  would  be  better/'  he  said,  and  turned  to  go.  He 
was  relieved,  but  thought  scornfully  of  the  volatile  tem- 
perament which  could  be  diverted  at  such  a  moment  by  a 
few  drops  of  rain. 

And  Isabel  said  to  herself:  "Poor  Father!  But  surely 
it  wasn't  my  fault  that  I  was  born." 

The  next  day,  when  she  went  to  him  to  pay  her  share 
of  the  expense  of  Aunt  Eliza's  headstone,  he  was  as  un- 
approachable as  ever.  It  seemed  to  Isabel  that  they  were 
even  farther  apart  than  before.  It  was  small  wonder 
that  she  continued  henceforth  to  omit  mentioning  to  him 
diversions  which  he  would  perhaps  have  forbidden. 


XXVII 

Of  diversion  Isabel  had  indeed  a  fairer  share  than  her 
father  would  have  thought  compatible  with  her  position 
as  daughter  of  the  parsonage.  Certain  duties  she  had. 
She  must  go  to  church  twice  on  Sunday  and  to  prayer 
meeting  on  the  appointed  weekday  evening.  Being  con- 
sidered unfit,  in  her  unconverted  state,  to  be  a  Sunday- 
school  teacher,  she  was  enrolled  in  a  Bible  class.  At 
church  sociables  she  was  obliged,  with  the  other  young 
girls,  to  pass  food  to  the  older  people ;  an  office  which  she 
hated.  And  she  must  always  appear  promptly  at  prayers 
before  breakfast.  She  had  never  been  farther  from  any 
religious  feeling  than  she  was  now.  She  had  not  even 
the  interest  which  terror  inspires.  True,  she  said  a  per- 
functory prayer  at  night  and  read  a  few  verses  in  her 
Bible.  Everybody  did  that,  she  supposed,  and  the  omis- 
sion really  would  make  one  a  little  uncomfortable.  In 
church  she  had  acquired  a  serviceable  habit  of  fixing 
upon  the  preacher  eyes  which  seemed  attentive,  while  in 
fact  she  heard  little  or  nothing  of  what  he  said.  The 
prayer  meetings  she  hated,  and  the  Bible  class,  conducted 
on  primitive  lines,  scarcely  interested  her.  The  exercises 
of  religion,  it  seemed,  must  simply  be  endured  in  silence. 
As  to  the  high  ideals  which  grew  up  in  the  favoring 
atmosphere  of  Miss  Pryor's  school,  they  were  lapsing  into 
neglect,  as  far  as  any  conscious  cherishing  of  them  was 
concerned.  There  remained,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  certain 
rudimentary  instincts  and  principles. 

Of  duties,  beyond  religious  ones,  there  were  none. 
Lydia  wanted  no  meddling  in  household  matters,  and  as  to 
the  employment  of  the  girl's  leisure  hours,  her  curiosity, 
usually  so  active,  was,  for  the  moment,  diminishing, 
owing  to  an  unusual  occupation  with  affairs  of  her  own. 

William  Stirling  had  never  been  given  to  petty  curi- 

146 


Isabel  Stirling  147 

osity.  Over-punctilious  as  to  his  duty  in  large  matters, 
he  was  far  from  being  meddlesome  in  small,  every-day 
doings.  Those  were  things  for  women  to  attend  to,  and 
he  had  given  his  girl  a  mother.  Even  in  Isabel's  child- 
hood, while  he  had  punished  with  awful  severity  such  of 
her  iniquities  as  came  to  his  knowledge,  he  had  never 
played  the  spy.  He  assumed  now  that,  under  his  wife's 
supervision,  his  daughter  was  engaged  in  the  normal 
feminine  pursuits  of  the  household.  He  had  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  Lydia  would  fail  to  keep  in  touch  with 
Isabel's  outside  amusements;  that  she  would  actually 
encourage  intimacies  of  which  he  could  not  approve  did 
not  enter  his  head.  Certainly  he  would  not  have  coun- 
tenanced the  girl's  frequent  visits  to  Edgewood  House. 
Mrs.  Bellenden,  nothing  daunted  by  the  fact  that  she  was 
Dr.  Stirling's  daughter,  invited  her  there  repeatedly,  and 
Lydia  smiled  upon  her  going. 

Mrs.  Bellenden  was  a  revelation  to  a  girl  who  was 
used  to  people  who  salved  their  tyrannical  consciences  by 
treating  their  amusements  largely  as  a  matter  of  "Ought." 
Ptolemy  was  still  in  the  stage  when  one  did  all  sorts  of 
pleasant  things  because  it  was  one's  duty  to  do  them.  One 
"ought  to  invite"  so-and-so,  or  one  "owed"  so  many 
people  an  entertainment.  The  army  woman  took  her 
amusement  as  simply  as  she  took  her  daily  bread,  and 
considered  it  equally  necessary.  Incidentally,  she  pro- 
vided amusement  for  everybody  about  her,  partly  because 
she  was  kind-hearted,  partly  because  one  couldn't  play 
alone. 

"It's  such  a  pity  you  don't  dance,"  she  said  to  Isabel, 
"but  you  must  come  up  to  dinner  on  Saturday  just  the 
same,  and  it  may  amuse  you  to  watch  them." 

The  Saturday  afternoon  dance  at  Edgewood  House 
was  an  institution,  and  the  chosen  girls  were  glad  enough 
to  go  there  and  eat  a  bad  midday  dinner  for  the  sake  of 
the  fun.  For  the  matter  of  that,  everybody  dined  in  the 
middle  of  the  day  in  Ptolemy. 

The  big  building,  begun  some  years  before  as  a  hydro- 
pathic establishment  and  abandoned,  had  been  bought  by 


148  Isabel  Stirling 

the  university  and  turned  into  barracks  for  the  housing 
of  students  and  professors.  On  the  top  floor  were  the 
students'  dormitories,  and  below  them  lodged  such  pro- 
fessors as  could  not  get  quarters  elsewhere.  The  Ptolemy 
of  those  days  possessed  very  few  houses  to  let  and  almost 
no  boarding-houses. 

On  the  first  floor  were  two  large  and  gloomy  dining 
halls,  one  for  the  professors  and  one  for  the  students, 
where  unspeakably  bad  food  was  served  to  the  inmates  of 
the  house,  and  a  large  room,  usually  known  as  the 
"Edgewood  Parlor,"  which  was  the  scene  of  most  of  the 
university  festivities,  official  and  unofficial. 

In  appearance  this  room  was  not  a  festal  apartment. 
At  one  end  was  a  small  fireplace,  looking  infinitesimal  in 
its  large  surroundings;  at  the  other  end,  a  bay  window. 
In  each  corner  stood  a  large  bronze  reproduction  of  a 
famous  masterpiece  of  sculpture,  while  on  the  walls  hung 
a  series  of  engravings  from  Kaulbach's  pictures;  both 
bronzes  and  engravings  having  been  lent  by  the  president 
of  the  university,  with  the  praiseworthy  though  futile 
design  of  making  the  room  a  little  less  hopelessly  barn- 
like. Wooden  benches  were  ranged  around  the  walls, 
and  on  the  floor  was  a  red  and  black  ingrain  carpet,  of 
the  style  affected  by  country  churches.  On  this  carpet 
the  young  people  danced  whenever  they  got  a  chance, 
and  certain  serious  young  professors,  animated  by  a  be- 
lated desire  for  frivolity,  laboriously  studied  the  Terpsi- 
chorean  art  under  the  direction  of  a  French  dancing 
master,  imported  from  heaven  knew  where. 

Isabel  certainly  found  it  entertaining,  even  to  look  on, 
and  would  have  found  it  more  so  if  she  had  not  longed  so 
intensely  to  be  dancing  with  the  others.  It  was  not 
expected  of  her  father's  daughter,  but  she  often  felt  that 
all  that  saved  her  from  breaking  the  promise  made  so 
long  ago,  was  the  fact  that  she  didn't  know  how.  She 
never  lacked  company,  for  one  boy  or  another  always 
seemed  glad  to  sit  out  the  dances  with  her,  and  so,  with 
what  philosophy  she  could  muster,  she  contented  herself 
with  the  half  loaf.    Only,  she  sighed  to  herself,  she  had, 


Isabel  Stirling  149 

after  all,  little  taste  for  boys.  Lansing  Fordyce  had 
spoiled  her  for  them.  She  cast  a  more  interested  eye 
toward  the  serious  young  professors,  but  they  were  too 
intent  on  practising  their  steps  to  care  for  ever  so  pretty 
a  girl  who  could  not  advance  their  nimbleness. 

Of  the  boys,  young  Harry  Burton  was  the  most  con- 
stant in  his  attentions,  the  most  eagerly  ready  to  turn 
aside  from  the  dancing  and  sit  beside  her.  By  degrees 
Isabel  fell  into  a  friendly  liking  for  him  and  found  her- 
self not  too  bored  by  his  prattle  about  himself,  his  friends, 
his  studies  and  amusements,  and  the  family  to  whom  he 
was  ever  loyally  devoted. 

But  with  the  coming  of  the  New  Year  she  found  her 
most  absorbing  amusement  in  what  seemed  like  a  serious 
occupation.  Edmund  Gifford,  who  was  an  affectionate, 
but  autocratic,  elder  brother,  and  who  really  loved  to 
teach,  had  insisted  that,  even  though  "out  of  school," 
Jessie  ought  to  be  learning  something,  and  that  she  could 
not  do  better  than  to  learn  of  him ;  and  he  had  taken  very 
kindly  to  her  suggestion  that  she  would  like  Isabel  for  a 
companion  in  her  lessons.  To  Isabel  the  opportunity 
seemed  heaven-sent.  Every  Saturday  morning  she  went 
with  Jessie  to  his  study;  and  she  would  far  rather  have 
missed  the  afternoon  dance  than  the  morning  lesson. 

Edmund  was  pleasing  himself  by  experimenting  with 
certain  theories  of  his  own  as  to  the  stimulation  of  the 
youthful  intellect.  First  of  all,  he  was  teaching  them 
English,  occasionally,  by  what  seemed  to  his  sister  a 
roundabout  way. 

"But  it  isn't  to  teach  you  French,"  he  explained,  when 
he  told  them  to  bring  him  written  translations.  "It's  to 
enlarge  your  English  vocabulary  and  teach  you  precision." 

Jessie  translated  with  conscience  and  Isabel  with  en- 
thusiasm and  a  certain  inspiration.  The  search  for  the 
right  word,  the  exact  shade  of  meaning,  seemed  to  her 
quite  the  most  fascinating  game  that  could  be  played. 
She  astonished  her  teacher,  who  had  found  only  measured 
praise  for  his  sister's  faithful  work. 

"Good — very  good — very  good  indeed,"  he  said  to  her 


150  Isabel  Stirling 

after  one  of  her  most  successful  performances.  "You Ve 
got  at  the  spirit  of  it.    Some  day,  I  think " 

"Yes — "  she  said  eagerly,  as  he  paused.  "Some 
day — what?" 

"Some  day  when  you  have  lived  long  enough  to  have 
something  to  say,  you  may  be  able  to  write/'  he  said 
judicially. 

She  turned  crimson  with  delight.  "Oh — something  to 
say  I"  she  breathed. 

Edmund  regarded  her  smilingly.  It  was  agreeable  to 
play  with  her  excitement.  "When  you  get  old,"  he  said, 
"you  can  write  your  reminiscences  of  these  first  days  of 
the  university.  It  will  make  good  reading  if  someone 
doesn't  edit  all  the  interesting  things  out  of  it." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  wait  till  I'm  old.  It's  too  long 
even  to  think  of !" 

"You'll  have  to  suppress  too  much  if  you  do  it  sooner." 

She  laughed.  "For  instance,  the  two  tall  ladies  who 
stood  on  guard,  one  on  each  side  of  Professor  Fielding 
Browne  in  the  bay  window  at  the  Founder's  Day  recep- 
tion— and  each  of  them  so  afraid  the  other  would  get  him 
to  turn  her  way." 

"And  old  Professor  Hyde,"  put  in  Jessie,  "with  his 
dignity  and  his  gray  hair  and  his  flirtatiousness  and  his 
French  receptions  where  people  talk  English  in  corners 
and  he  calls  them  to  order  in  slow  French." 

"Don't  forget  our  Founder,  who  wants  every  student 
who  fails  in  his  examinations  to  be  given  a  fresh  chance 
every  time,"  remarked  Edmund. 

"It's  so  nice  of  him,"  said  Jessie.  "And  have  you 
thought  of  Mrs.  Bellenden  ?"  she  went  on.  She  can't  walk 
a  step,  but  can  dance  all  night,  and  in  the  daytime  lies  in 
bed  in  her  best  nightgown,  pinned  with  a  big  coral  brooch, 
and  receives  calls  from  her  dancing  partners.  She  let 
you  in,  didn't  she,  Edmund?" 

"She  did,"  replied  Edmund,  "and  she  was  very  agree- 
able. You  might  write  a  novel,  you  know,"  he  con- 
tinued, turning  to  Isabel,  "and  leave  the  country  before 
it  was  published." 


Isabel  Stirling  151 

"Are  you  going  to  write  one?" 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  that  I  can't  do  anything  half  so 
entertaining.    My  mind  doesn't  work  that  way." 

"He  has  a  North  American  Review  kind  of  mind," 
said  Jessie  with  pride, 

"Oh,  not  so  bad  as  that,  I  hope,"  said  her  brother  with 
a  grimace. 

"I  think  he  has  any  kind  of  mind  he  wants  to  have," 
said  Isabel. 

"Now  that,"  said  Edmund,  "is  the  way  I  like  a  pupil 
to  speak.  I  shall  give  you  something  very  nice  and  diffi- 
cult to  do  for  next  time — because  you  will  like  it,  although 
Jessie  won't.  Jessie  is  lazy.  As  for  you,  Isabel,  you 
are  madly  industrious  when  your  industry  is  going  to  be 
appreciated.  I  don't  quite  know  what  you  would  be  on  a 
desert  island.  Perhaps  you  would  sit  on  the  sand  and 
think  what  you  were  going  to  do  the  next  day." 

Isabel  flushed.  "I  usually  do  the  thing  I  intend  to  do," 
she  said  with  spirit. 

Edmund  laughed.  "You  haven't  tried  it  on  the  desert 
island." 


XXVIII 

Isabel  rushed  home  from  her  lesson  and  flew  to  shut' 
herself  up  in  her  own  room.  Her  brain  was  awhirl  with 
the  new  idea.  Of  course — why,  of  course  she  would 
write  the  book — the  novel.  Naturally,  she  must  do  it  in 
dead  secrecy.  Even  Edmund,  who  had  given  her  the 
idea,  must  never  know  it.  She  locked  her  door  and  sat 
down  to  think  it  over,  glad  that  she  need  not  be  hurrying 
to  dress  for  Edgewood  House,  although  in  the  morning 
she  had  been  disappointed  and  a  little  aggrieved  at  re- 
ceiving a  note  from  Mrs.  Bellenden,  countermanding  the 
invitation  for  that  afternoon,  on  account  of  a  violent 
headache.  What  business  had  anyone  to  have  headaches  ? 
But  now  it  was  different.  Mrs.  Bellenden  could  have  all 
the  headaches  she  liked. 

Her  plan  was  entrancing  in  the  large;  details,  as  she 
at  once  realized,  might  be  perplexing.  There  was  plenty 
of  material,  delicious  material;  but  a  novel  could  not 
consist  altogether  of  descriptions  of  odd  or  interesting 
people.  She  must  construct  a  plot.  And  of  course  there 
must  be  love — anguish  and  ecstasy.  Well,  she  thought 
she  knew  all  about  that,  and  gave  a  short  laugh  at  the 
idea  of  turning  her  own  sad  experience  to  use.  She 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  clasping  and  unclasping 
her  hands,  her  brain  filled  with  chaotic  ideas. 

In  the  midst  of  her  creative  ardor  she  was  summoned 
to  dinner.  She  took  her  place  at  the  table  and  ate 
dreamily,  but  with  a  good  appetite,  quite  unobservant  that 
Lydia,  who  was  usually  deliberate  over  the  important 
function  of  a  meal,  was  in  a  flutter  of  haste  to  get  this 
one  over.  Dr.  Stirling,  however,  took  as  much  time  as 
usual.  When  at  last  he  had  finished,  he  went  to  his  study, 
but  not  to  remain.    It  was  his  custom  to  finish  his  sermon 

152 " 


Isabel  Stirling  153 

by  noon  on  Saturday  and  then,  in  order  to  satisfy  his 
conscience  by  denying  himself  the  pleasure  of  absorption 
in  his  studies  during  the  hours  preceding  his  strenuous 
Sunday  labors,  to  spend  the  afternoon  in  a  long  walk. 
To-day  he  started  out  early. 

Isabel  went  again  to  her  room,  but  presently  was  seized 
with  a  desire  to  get  out  of  doors.  She  felt  that  a  walk 
in  the  open  air  would  help  her  to  marshal  her  thronging, 
but  confused,  ideas.  As  she  came  downstairs  in  her  hat 
and  coat  she  remembered  that  Lydia  had  asked  her  to  do 
an  errand  for  her,  a  trifling  bit  of  shopping,  and  she 
went  into  the  little  sitting-room  for  the  sample  which  she 
was  to  match.  Lydia  was  not  there  and  she  looked  on 
the  desk,  thinking  to  find  what  she  wanted.  What  met 
her  eyes  was  a  neat  pile  of  books  which,  familiar  enough 
in  themselves,  looked  oddly  out  of  place  there ;  a  French 
grammar  and  dictionary  and  a  note-book,  such  as  she 
had  always  used  for  her  own  exercises.  Lydia  was  no 
student  and  seldom  even  read  a  book.  While  Isabel  stood 
gazing  in  surprise  and  amusement  her  stepmother  came 
rustling  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  room. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  asked  sharply. 

Isabel  noticed  that  she  had  changed  her  dress  for  one 
which  she  usually  reserved  for  small  festivities.  "I  came 
for  the  sample  of  ribbon,"  she  said.  "You  know  you 
wanted  me  to  match  it  for  you."  She  couldn't  refrain 
from  adding:  "Are  you  studying  French?" 

"And  why  not?"  asked  Lydia,  recovering  her  usual 
manner.  "Did  you  fancy  that  one  ever  gave  up  learning?" 

Isabel  stared.    "Why,  no— -only " 

"Little  schoolgirls  mustn't  imagine  that  they  are  the 
only  persons  who  ever  do  any  studying.  Here  is  the 
ribbon,  and  I  want  a  yard  and  three-quarters — and  it 
must  match  exactly." 

Out  in  the  clear  cold  air  Isabel  soon  forgot  her  step- 
mother's vagaries.  Down  in  Main  Street  she  met  sev- 
eral of  the  university  ladies;  Saturday  afternoon  was  a 
great  time  for  them  to  go  out  walking  or  shopping  with 
their  husbands.     Professor  Boyd  and  his  pretty  young 


154  Isabel  Stirling 

wife  passed  her  with  a  cheerful  greeting.  She  had  a 
pleasant  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Boyd,  dating  from  the 
first  formal  call,  which  she  had  made  under  Lydia's 
escort.  Lydia  had  been  quick  to  take  advantage  of  the 
opportunity  afforded  by  the  young  woman's  appearance 
at  Dr.  Stirling's  church  one  Sunday  morning;  the  only 
time  she  ever  did  go  there.  Lydia's  acquaintance  with 
her  never  got  much  forwarder,  but  Amy  Boyd  lost  her 
heart  to  the  minister's  daughter.  In  response  to  a  cordial 
urgency  Isabel  had  been  several  times  to  the  little  house 
and  was  already  learning  something  of  university  life 
from  the  point  of  view  of  a  young  pair  who  had  married 
on  the  strength  of  a  small  salary  and  large  hopes. 

After  she  had  conscientiously  matched  the  ribbon  she 
turned  out  of  Main  Street  in  a  direction  which  led  to  the 
outskirts  of  the  village,  stepping  briskly  on  the  crisp  snow 
with  which  the  sidewalk  was  covered.  Her  thoughts 
went  on  joyously  to  the  novel,  whose  problems  she  con- 
fronted with  confidence.  How,  in  the  first  place,  was  she 
to  tell  the  story  so  as  to  bring  in  as  much  as  possible  of 
the  life  of  the  university?  She  decided  that  it  must  be 
told  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  newcomers.  Might 
she  not  write  a  series  of  letters  from  a  young  professor's 
wife — or  a  journal?  But  no- — there  must  be  a  love  story, 
and  it  was  not  conceivable  to  Isabel  that  a  married  woman 
should  have  love  affairs.  What  about  a  professor's 
sister  ?  Yes,  that  would  exactly  do.  A  young  sister  who 
had  come  to  stay  with  her  brother  and  his  wife  and  who 
would  be  in  the  heart  of  things  and  yet  quite  free  to  have 
affairs  of  her  own.  Professor  Boyd's  sister,  for  instance. 
She  found  herself  laughing  aloud  at  the  thought.  How 
little  the  Boyds  would  suspect  that  they  had  a  shadowy 
sister  beside  them — a  busy  sister,  taking  notes  with  ail 
her  might.    Oh,  what  fun ! 

She  set  to  work  to  plan  her  first  chapter.  She  would 
write  neither  letters  nor  journal,  but  would  just  let  the 
professor's  sister  tell  the  story.  Her  heroine  should  be 
named  Eleanor  Maitland.  As  Eleanor  Maitland  she 
herself  would  lead  a  far  more  amusing  life  than  Isabel 


Isabel  Stirling  155 

Stirling  was  living.  She  was  suddenly  in  a  great  hurry- 
to  get  home.    She  must  begin  at  once. 

She  had  now  reached  a  bridge  crossing  one  of  the 
creeks  which  make  their  way  from  the  hills  above 
Ptolemy  to  the  lake  below,  and  in  spite  of  her  haste,  she 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  watch  the  waterfall  which  comes 
foaming  down  over  the  rocks  a  little  above  the  bridge.  It 
fell  now  between  banks  fringed  with  enormous  and  fan- 
tastic icicles.  Would  she  have  to  put  descriptions  of 
Nature  in  her  novel?  What  a  wonderfully  beautiful 
spectacle  this  was,  with  all  that  ice  glittering  in  the  sun- 
shine ;  and  how  little  she  had  ever  really  noticed  or  cared 
for  such  things.  She  wondered  why,  not  realizing  how 
little  time  she  had  to  spare  from  her  absorption  in  herself. 
However,  she  would  now  cultivate  Nature.  Suddenly  a 
voice  behind  her  made  her  start. 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Miss  Stirling,"  said  the  voice,  and 
turning,  she  confronted  young  Harry  Burton. 

"This  is  certainly  good  luck,"  he  said,  cheerfully  con- 
fident that  it  was  good  luck  for  both  of  them.  "Isn't 
that  a  bully  sight — that  fall  and  all  ?  Oh,  I  beg  your  par- 
don for  my  slang." 

"No,  don't.    I  like  'bully'  ". 

They  stood  for  a  moment  and  then  walked  on.  After 
all,  it  was  pleasant  to  have  a  companion.  Besides,  Eleanor 
Maitland  must  see  something  of  the  students.  As  Eleanor 
she  made  herself  more  agreeable  to  him  than  she  had 
ever  done  in  her  own  person,  and  he  told  her  over  again, 
more  intimately  than  ever,  all  about  his  past,  present  and 
future.  She  listened  and  questioned  with  a  most  delight- 
ful appearance  of  sympathy,  storing  in  her  memory  a 
choice  collection  of  slang  phrases.  She  was  in  such  a 
desperate  hurry  to  write  them  down  that  when,  as  the 
short  winter  afternoon  was  drawing  to  a  close,  they 
reached  the  door  of  the  parsonage,  she  greatly  dis- 
appointed him  by  not  inviting  him  to  come  in.  However, 
when  he  showed  a  disposition  to  keep  her  lingering  out- 
side she  did  ask  him  to  come  to  see  her  soon,  and  with  that 
he  went  away  in  good  spirits. 


156  Isabel  Stirling 

Isabel,  all  flushed  and  tingling  with  her  cold  walk, 
paused  a  moment  in  the  hall  to  take  off  her  rubber  over- 
shoes. The  parlor  door  was  half  closed  and  from  within 
came  voices,  Lydia's  high  tones  alternating  with  deeper 
ones.  Isabel  paused,  arrested  in  the  act  of  pushing  off 
one  overshoe  with  the  toe  of  the  other  foot.  She  had 
realized  suddenly  that  Lydia  was  speaking  French — very 
halting,  slow,  and  incorrect  French,  to  be  sure,  and 
spoken  with  an  honest  American  accent. 

"I  never  can  understand  Monsieur  Giraud  at  all,"  she 
was  saying,  "but  I  understand  you  perfectly.  You  speak 
so  well." 

Monsieur  Giraud,  as  Isabel  knew,  was  a  young  French- 
man, an  instructor  in  the  university.  But  to  whom  was 
this  ambiguous  compliment  addressed  ?  She  felt  that  she 
must  find  out,  or  perish  in  the  attempt.  She  tiptoed  to 
the  parlor  door  and,  keeping  well  in  the  shadow,  peeped 
in.  In  the  light  which  came  through  a  west  window  she 
was  able  to  descry  the  leonine  mane  and  classical  features 
of  old  Professor  Hyde.  Luckily  Lydia  had  her  back 
turned  to  the  door. 

Isabel  fled  to  her  room.  She  was  divided  between 
astonishment,  mirth  and  scorn — that  illimitable  scorn 
which  the  young  feel  for  the  follies  of  their  elders.  As 
she  put  away  her  hat  and  coat  an  audacious  idea  nearly 
took  her  breath  away.  Dare  she  put  Lydia  into  the 
book? 


XXIX 

Life  now  became  busy  and  interesting,  and  one  circum- 
stance which  had  been  a  grief — if  not  a  grievance — could 
be  looked  upon  as  a  distinct  advantage.  Isabel  had  pitied 
herself  because  no  one  in  the  world  seemed  to  need  her ; 
now  she  rejoiced  in  her  freedom.  The  requirements  of 
religion  took  little  time;  social  duties  took  less,  for  al- 
though Lydia  had  at  first  seemed  desirous  of  her  com- 
pany in  paying  visits  and  the  like,  she  now  encouraged 
the  girl  to  go  about  by  herself.  For  the  rest,  it  was 
understood  that  she  and  Jessie  were  studying  regularly. 
There  would  be  no  lack  of  time  to  write,  no  embarrassing 
questions  as  to  her  occupations.  She  even  ceased  to 
lament  over  what  had  been  to  her  a  sad  disappointment ; 
the  fact  that  Lydia  had  been  distinctly  discouraging  to 
her  plan  of  inviting  several  of  her  schoolmates  to  visit 
her.    She  addressed  herself  with  enthusiasm  to  her  task. 

Amy  Boyd  rejoiced  at  her  increasing  intimacy,  for 
there  were  many  hours  of  loneliness  for  the  young  wife 
in  her  little  house,  while  her  husband  was  busy  with  his 
classes  or  in  his  study,  and  Isabel  was  soon  almost  as 
much  behind  the  scenes  in  the  household  as  if  she  had 
really  been  Eleanor.  It  gave  her  the  strangest  feeling  of 
duality,  for  sometimes  she  was  quite  simply  herself,  and 
at  other  times  she  was  playing  with  all  her  might  at  being 
Eleanor. 

"She's  an  odd  girl,"  said  Amy  Boyd  to  her  husband. 
"She  is  so  interested  in  everything  and  yet  at  times  so 
detached.    One  wonders  what  she  is  really  thinking  of." 

"Of  Harry  Burton,  perhaps." 

"No,"  said  Amy  slowly,  "I  don't  think  she  is.  I  don't 
think  she  cares  for  him  at  all." 

"Then  she  isn't  behaving  prettily." 

The  criticism  would  have  astonished  her.      Eleanor 

157 


158  Isabel  Stirling 

must  of  course  have  some  experience  with  young  men  and 
Harry  Burton  was  the  first  to  present  himself.  He  did 
not  seem  to  her  a  person  to  be  taken  seriously.  In  fact, 
her  recent  experience  with  Fordyce  led  her  to  think  that 
no  man  need  be  taken  very  seriously.  Probably  none  of 
them  meant  anything.  As  to  Harry  Burton,  that  he  did 
not  weary  her  was  only  because  she  found  it  so  immensely 
amusing  to  be  playing  a  part.  But  serious  or  not  serious, 
it  had  not  so  far  occurred  to  her  that,  as  Isabel,  she 
would  be  called  to  account  for  Eleanor's  diversions. 

Meantime,  she  was  getting  more  and  more  into  the 
inside  of  university  life  and  was  all  the  time  growing 
more  sympathetic  with  the  difficulties  of  impecunious 
professors,  or  rather,  of  the  poor  professors'  wives.  She 
met  a  good  many  of  them  at  the  Boyds',  heard  much  dis- 
cussion of  their  problems,  and  was  sometimes  startled  by 
their  conclusions. 

"It's  my  opinion,"  said  Mrs.  Henderson  one  day,  "that 
there  are  just  three  courses  for  a  college  professor  to 
take  as  to  his  domestic  life — in  case,  of  course,  he  hasn't 
any  private  income  of  his  own." 

"Hardly  worth  while  making  the  exception,"  put  in 
little  Mrs.  Foster,  looking  up  briefly  from  her  sewing. 
"A  professor  with  a  private  income  is  almost  as  rare  as 
a  white  crow." 

"There's  Professor  Hardinge,"  said  Amy  Boyd,  "and 
the  president." 

"Presidents  don't  count,"  replied  the  other.  "And 
Professor  Hardinge  is  the  white  crow.  Well,  Mrs. 
Henderson,  what  are  the  three  courses.  We  want  to 
know  what  our  husbands  ought  to  have  done." 

"Either,"  resumed  Mrs.  Henderson,  "the  professor 
should  remain  unmarried,  or  he  should  marry  a  woman 
of  independent  fortune,  or  he  should  marry  a  person  not 
much  above  the  servant  class — or — well,  there's  a  fourth 
alternative.     They  shouldn't  have  any  children." 

"I  think  you're  horrid,"  said  Amy.  "I  have  no  money, 
I'm  not  of  the  servant  class,  and  I'm  sure  Henry  is  as 
glad  he  married  me  as  I  am  that  I  married  him." 


Isabel  Stirling  159 

"Do  you  have  any  more  income  than  you  spend?" 
asked  Mrs.   Henderson. 

"No,  but  we  hope  the  income  will  be  larger." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Henderson,  "we  have  three  hundred 
dollars  more  than  you.  We  have  three  children.  That 
isn't  many.  Yet  it  means  that  I  have  to  do  the  work 
of  a  servant — several  servants,  in  fact.  I'm  well  edu- 
cated. I  thought  I  was  going  to  be  a  companion  to 
my  husband.  Also,  I  liked  being  pretty — as  I  used  to 
be.  I'm  not  a  companion  to  my  husband ;  I'm  not  pretty 
any  more;  and  I'm  not  trained  to  do  the  work  I'm  doing. 
I'm  not  even  a  very  good  mother.  I  haven't  time  to  be 
— or  strength.  When  I'm  tired  or  in  a  hurry — and  I'm 
always  tired  and  in  a  hurry,  then  I'm  cross  and  unjust. 
As  to  an  increase  of  salary — don't  you  believe  it.  I 
suppose  President  Annesley  told  your  husband  that  it 
would  come  almost  immediately?". 

"Yes,"  said  Amy.  "I  suppose  that  most  of  the  young 
men  came  on  that  understanding." 

"Of  course.  Well,  the  president  is  optimistic  and 
believed  in  his  own  promises.  But  the  university  is 
trying  to  be  big,  and  it  hasn't  got  the  money.  Presi- 
dent Annesley  would  rather  make  a  new  department 
than  do  anything  else  in  the  world.  And  the  professors' 
salaries  will  be  the  last  thing  he  and  the  trustees  will 
worry  about.  They  say  there  are  lots  of  young  profes- 
sors wanting  jobs.  The  supply  is  greater  than  the 
demand.  And  President  Annesley  is  a  delightful  man, 
but  he  hasn't  an  ounce  of  practical  knowledge  of  money. 
He  was  born  with  a  gold  spoon  in  his  mouth — and  his 
fairy  godmother  denied  him  the  gift  of  imagination. 
So  there  you  are." 

"But,"  persisted  Amy,  "Henry  thinks  all  the  incon- 
veniences— the  simple  living  and  all  that — are  worth 
while,  if  a  man  can  only  do  his  work — the  real  work 
for  which  he  was  made.  Of  course  the  worst  is  the 
lack  of  proper  apparatus  and  all  the  books  one  needs — 
but  those  will  come." 

"Oh,  yes,"   scoffed  Mrs.   Henderson.     "Plain  living 


160  Isabel  Stirling 

and  high  thinking.  We  all  hear  that.  Only  the  trouble 
is,  the  high  thinking  falls  to  the  man,  and  his  wife  has 
such  a  hard  time  with  the  plain  living  that  she  can't 
think  at  all,  much  less  think  highly." 

Isabel  listened  with  all  her  ears.  It  was  the  same 
story  with  so  many  of  them.  As  far  as  she  could  make 
out,  drudgery,  debt  and  discouragement  seemed  to  be 
the  lot  of  the  women.  Some  of  the  husbands  pursued 
their  way  indifferent  or  oblivious  to  the  turmoil  of  the 
family  life ;  others,  more  sensitive,  denied  themselves  all 
rest  and  leisure  and  even,  it  was  whispered,  cheapened 
themselves  in  the  eyes  of  the  learned,  in  order  to  earn  a 
few  dollars  by  writing  popular  magazine  articles  or  lec- 
tures. But,  as  someone  commented  caustically,  the 
trustees  didn't  care  a  hang  about  the  quality  of  a  man's 
publications.  They  respected  him  in  proportion  to  the 
number  of  his  printed  words.  Meantime,  life  was  still 
rose-colored  to  Amy  Boyd,  although  even  she  would  say 
sometimes: 

"If  only  Ptolemy  people  weren't  so  hospitable,  and  if 
only  Ptolemy  mud  were  not  so  deep!  We  can't  afford 
a  carriage  for  their  parties  and  it's  so  hard  to  walk  up 
and  down  all  these  endless  hills." 

Isabel  put  it  all  into  the  book.  In  the  book  she  went 
to  all  the  parties.  She  went  in  overshoes  and  waterproof 
cloak,  holding  up  her  dress  carefully.  But  what  did  that 
matter?  In  the  book  she  danced  like  a  sylph  and  was 
the  belle  of  every  ball. 

More  and  more  insistent  was  the  temptation  to  put 
Lydia  in  the  book.  Not,  of  course,  as  a  minister's  wife, 
nor  as  anybody's  stepmother.  Isabel  had  her  niche  all 
ready  for  her.  A  lady  of  Ptolemy  she  was  to  be,*  un- 
married and  not  too  poor;  and  she  was  to  display  all 
her  little  coquetries. 

For  a  long  time  she  resisted  temptation,  yielding  at 
last  as  a  matter  of  experiment.  "I'll  just  try  it,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "and  see  how  it  goes."  It  went  so  well 
that  she  continued.  The  scenes  in  which  Lydia  figured 
seemed  to  write  themselves.     Reading  them  over,  she 


Isabel  Stirling  161 

hadn't  the  heart  to  take  them  out.  Lydia  was  by  far 
the  most  real  person  in  the  book  and  so  wove  herself 
into  the  story  that  at  last  it  seemed  that  she  could  not 
be  taken  out  without  disintegrating  the  whole  fabric. 
But  in  personal  appearance  Isabel  made  her  quite  differ- 
ent from  the  real  Lydia.  In  fact,  that  was  her  one 
precaution  with  all  her  characters.  She  slipped  them 
into  different  bodies,  made  the  tall  short  and  the  short 
tall,  the  brunette  fair  and  the  blonde  dark;  often  with 
a  feeling  that  she  was  thereby  lessening  their  effective- 
ness. She  wondered  whether  the  soul  really  took  the 
pattern  of  the  body,  or  whether  simply  she  could  not  see 
deeply  enough.  Lydia  couldn't  be  quite  Lydia  to  her 
without  that  elaborate  sandy  coiffure  and  those  pale 
greenish  eyes.  Yet  in  portraying  her  stepmother  she 
was  too  near  the  truth  for  safety.  On  Amy,  her  happy, 
make-believe  sister,  she  put  her  most  loving  touches. 
And  then  one  day  she  discovered  her  friend  in  tears. 

"Oh,  Amy  dear,  what  is  it?"  she  exclaimed. 

Amy  raised  her  head  and  wiped  her  eyes  drearily. 
Her  pretty  light  hair  was  all  ruffled  and  damp.  "I'm 
going  to  have  a  baby,"  she  said. 

"But  that  will  be  lovely,"  said  Isabel  shyly.  The 
girls  of  her  generation  did  not  talk  easily  about  such 
matters. 

"No,  it  won't.  It  will  be  perfectly  horrid.  It's  the 
end  of  Henry  and  me — and  the  beginning  of  Mrs. 
Henderson." 

"I  thought  people  always  expected  to  have  a  baby," 
said  Isabel  blushing. 

Amy  laughed  through  her  tears.  "I  suppose  they  do, 
in  a  way,"  she  said.  "But  you  see,  when  we  got  here 
and  saw  what  life  was  going  to  be  like,  I  hoped  it 
wouldn't  be  for  a  good  while  yet.  Why,  we've  only 
just  begun  to  have  a  good  time  together,  Henry  and  I." 

Isabel  felt  sympathetic  and  embarrassed.  She  won- 
dered what  Eleanor  would  say  and  do.  She  would  be 
the  maiden  aunt  and  a  great  help,  doubtless. 

"Isn't  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?"  she  asked. 


162  Isabel  Stirling 

"You  dear  thing!"  said  Amy,  putting  out  her  hand 
impulsively  to  clasp  Isabel's.  "No,  I  must  dree  my 
weird  by  myself.  I  shall  be  very  uninteresting  to  you 
— making  baby-clothes  and  looking  horrid,  and  after- 
wards all  taken  up  with  It.  If  only  I  could  be  sure  it 
would  be  the  only  It!" 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,"  said  the  make-believe  sister. 
"I'll  come  and  help  you  sew — and  do  all  I  can." 

"And  be  a  sort  of  aunt  to  It,"  said  Amy.  "Well, 
let's  make  the  best  of  the  time  while  there's  any  time 
left." 

At  first  Isabel  was  too  sympathetic  to  think  of  any- 
thing but  the  real  Amy  and  her  troubles,  but  as  time 
went  on  she  wondered  whether  she  could  put  such  busi- 
ness as  that  in  the  book.  She  saw  that  it  was  needed  to 
complete  the  picture  of  real  life,  but  it  seemed  horribly 
immodest  to  write  about  such  a  thing.  She  put  it  off, 
weighed  it  in  her  mind,  and  then  one  day  locked  her 
door  and,  blushing  immoderately,  set  herself  to  write  of 
the  trial  of  a  coming  baby  when  one  was  happy  without 
it  and  would  be  too  poor  with  it.  Fortunately  she  wrote 
as  the  young  maiden  aunt-to-be,  and  the  immaturity  of 
her  point  of  view  was  in  character. 


XXX 

It  really  did  not  occur  to  Dr.  Stirling  that  a  young  man's 
attendance  at  his  Sunday  evening  service  meant  anything 
else  than  that  the  young  man  had  been  properly  brought 
up  and  had  retained,  even  amid  the  distractions  and 
temptations  of  college  life,  a  proper  respect  for  religion. 
To  Lydia  it  furnished  a  strengthening  of  her  argument 
that,  the  university  once  established,  it  behooved  them 
to  gain  and  keep  what  influence  they  could  with  students 
and  professors,  even  to  the  point  of  joining  in  their  social 
diversions.  Not  that  Lydia  was  in  the  least  deceived  as 
to  the  true  cause  of  Harry  Burton's  churchgoing.  When 
they  happened  to  meet  at  the  church  door — a  meeting 
which  seldom  failed  to  take  place — she  invited  him  into 
the  minister's  pew,  and  after  the  service  was  over,  dis- 
patched the  two  young  people  ahead,  while  she  waited 
for  her  husband ;  and  if  they  loitered  by  the  way  so  that 
she  and  William  passed  them  and  reached  home  before 
them,  no  notice  was  taken  of  the  matter  even  by  the 
minister,  it  being  very  much  the  custom  for  a  girl  to 
be  escorted  home  by  a  young  man.  True,  he  would 
not  have  allowed  Isabel  to  invite  an  escort  to  come  into 
the  house  on  a  Sunday  evening,  but  as  winter  yielded  to 
spring,  and  spring  to  early  summer,  the  young  people 
could  linger  on  the  porch  with  impunity.  Their  voices 
were  inaudible  in  the  study,  to  which  Dr.  Stirling  always 
betook  himself  gladly. 

It  was  on  the  porch,  on  a  moonlight  evening  in  early 
June,  that  young  Harry  Burton  brought  home  to  Isabel 
the  drawbacks  of  a  double  personality.  As  Eleanor,  she 
still  found  herself  amused  by  her  flirtation  with  him  and 
was  altogether  taken  aback  when,  as  Isabel,  she  was  held 
to  account  for  the  encouragement  she  had  given  him. 

163 


164  Isabel  Stirling 

In  point  of  fact,  he  had  not  needed  much  encouragement, 
being  an  optimistic  lad.  He  was  so  sure  of  her  answer 
that  he  didn't  even  wait  for  it.  He  was  at  some  pains, 
however,  to  explain  his  prospects. 

"You  are  the  only  girl  I  have  ever  cared  for,"  said 
he,  "and  you  have  been  so  good  to  me  that  I  know  you 
care  too.  As  soon  as  I've  finished  my  law  course  at 
Columbia  my  father  is  going  to  take  me  into  partner- 
ship— and  then  we  can  be  married."  He  tried  to  possess 
himself  of  her  hand. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Isabel,  hastily  drawing  it  away. 

"  'Oh,  no !'  "  he  mimicked  her.  "What  do  you  mean 
by  'oh,  no'  ?  No  one  can  see."  He  put  his  arm  around 
her. 

She  jumped  quickly  from  her  seat  beside  him.  "I've 
never  thought  of  such  a  thing!"  she  exclaimed.  "You 
mustn't  think  of  it  either." 

"Oh,  well!"  He  laughed  a  little  at  her.  "I  like  a 
girl  to  be  a  little  stand-offish — but  not  too  much.  Of 
course  you've  thought  of  it.  I've  given  you  every  reason 
to.  Sit  down  again.  I  won't  touch  you  till  you  let  me, 
but  we've  got  to  talk  about  it." 

She  was  half  frightened,  half  angry,  at  his  confident 
tone.  She  would  not  sit  down,  but  leaned  against  a 
pillar  of  the  porch.  "There's  no  use  talking,"  she  said 
firmly. 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is,"  he  replied  cheerfully.  "I  want  to 
tell  you  how  I  fell  in  love  with  you  the  first  time  I  saw 
you — and  I'm  sure  I  made  it  plain  enough.  You've 
always  liked  me  too — you  know  you  have.  It  seemed 
so  jolly  that  we  should  be  falling  in  love  right  along 
together — just  coming  to  meet  each  other — and  no 
agonies  about  it." 

"But  I  wasn't— I  didn't!" 

"I  suppose  you  weren't  thinking  as  much  about  it  as 
I  was,"  he  answered,  a  little  more  soberly.  "But  now 
— now  that  you  know  how  much  I  care.  I  haven't  got 
the  words  to  tell  you  how  much  I  care — dear,  sweet, 
beautiful  Isabel!" 


Isabel  Stirling  165 

There  was  a  thrill  and  tremor  in  his  voice,  and  in 
the  moonlight  his  young  face  showed  a  gravity  and  an 
emotion  which  she  had  never  seen  in  him  before.  She 
had  a  sudden  sick  feeling.  What  had  she  been  doing, 
playing  make-believe  with  this?  Why,  this  was  real! 
She  had  to  answer,  to  say  something.  Her  voice  faltered 
over  the  words  which  she  tried  to  make  clear  enough. 

He  argued,  he  was  incredulous,  it  seemed  that  he 
would  never  understand;  but  when  he  was  at  last  con- 
vinced that  she  was  seriously  refusing  him  he  was  hotly 
indignant.  He  told  her  she  was  a  heartless  flirt  and  her 
conscience  told  her  that  he  was  speaking  the  truth.  She 
was  very  humble,  terribly  remorseful,  begged  him  to 
forgive  her  if  she  had  misled  him,  said  she  was  sorry. 

"Sorry !"  he  retorted.  "I  don't  believe  it.  You've  had 
lots  of  fun  out  of  me,  no  doubt." 

And  that,  too,  was  true. 

When  he  had  at  last  taken  himself  away,  sore  and 
angry,  she  went  upstairs,  feeling  utterly  miserable  and 
ashamed.  That  she,  with  her  ideals,  should  have  behaved 
so  abominably,  seemed  incredible.  It  was  all  the  fault 
of  the  book  and  her  silly  idea  that  she  could  play  at 
being  an  imaginary  person.  She  wished  she  had  never 
thought  of  the  book.  A  sly  imp  told  her  that  she  had 
acquired  a  valuable  chapter,  but  she  repelled  the  idea. 
Never,  she  told  herself,  could  she  make  copy  of  such  an 
experience.     On  that  she  at  last  went  to  sleep. 

As  the  days  passed  she  found  herself  taking  a  more 
cheerful  view  of  the  matter.  She  was  still  sorry  and 
ashamed,  but  Harry  Burton's  heart  would  mend.  She 
couldn't  imagine  him  in  the  role  of  a  despairing  hero. 
Of  course  she  was  going  to  be  very  careful  in  the  future, 
but  suppose  she  did  use  this  experience.  He  would  never 
know  it.  She  went  to  her  desk.  As  she  placed  a  sheet 
of  paper  before  her  she  suddenly  laughed  aloud.  "The 
female  Goethe!"  she  said  jeeringly  and  dipped  her  pen 
into  the  ink.    .    .    . 

But  even  when  all  possible  use  had  been  made  of  this 
episode,  her  heroine  was  not  fitted  with  a  lover.     Well, 


166  Isabel  Stirling 

the  one  safe  thing  for  her  to  do  was  to  cast  Lansing 
Fordyce  for  the  part.  She  need  not  even  trouble  herself 
to  put  him  in  a  different  body.  Making  him  a  professor 
would  be  a  sufficient  disguise;  and  a  fascinating  young 
professor  she  proposed  him  to  be.  Her  industry  received 
a  fresh  stimulus. 

But  after  all,  the  affair  went  slowly.  It  was  all  smooth 
sailing  as  long  as  she  occupied  herself  with  descriptions 
of  his  personal  appearance  and  certain  little  tricks  of 
phrase  and  manner;  and  with  the  effect  of  his  personality 
on  her  Eleanor.  But  then  came  difficulties;  and  in  de- 
spair she  locked  up  her  manuscript  and  did  not  look  at  it 
for  a  month.  For  when  she  tried  to  imagine  how  her 
hero  would  behave  and  what  he  would  say  under  certain 
circumstances,  she  found  herself  against  a  blank  wall. 
She  didn't  in  the  least  know  what  he  would  think  or  do. 
She  knew  other  people.  Harry  Burton  was  an  open 
book  to  her,  and  she  had  a  fair  conception  of  Edmund 
Gifford  and  even  of  Henry  Boyd,  but  Lansing  Fordyce, 
the  man  to  whom  she  had  been  willing  to  hand  herself 
over,  soul  and  body,  she  seemed  not  to  know  at  all.  The 
thought  gave  her  pause.  What  was  it,  then,  that  she 
had  loved?  Was  it  only  his  good  looks  and  his  charm- 
ing manner  ?  She  repudiated  the  thought.  Had  she  then, 
although  so  ignorant  of  detail,  really  divined  the  spirit- 
ual part  of  him,  and  was  that  what  she  loved?  She 
would  fain  have  thought  so,  but  there  was  his  summary 
and  inexplicable  leave-taking.  She  had  never  been  will- 
ing to  believe  that  he  had  been  flirting  with  her,  even  as 
she  had  flirted  with  Harry  Burton — but    .    .    . 

In  her  crude  attempt  at  creative  work  she  was  learning 
to  think,  to  analyze,  to  differentiate. 


XXXI 

There  was  one  person  besides  Amy  Boyd  who  had 
noticed  Isabel's  odd  detachment  of  mind.  Edmund 
Gifford  watched  her  curiously,  wondering  what  had 
happened  to  her.  Not  but  what  her  lessons  were  as 
well  prepared  as  usual.  She  was  as  eager  as  ever  to 
learn,  more  eager,  if  possible,  but  there  was  a  look  in 
her  eyes  as  if  she  were  seeing  something  beyond  the 
vision  of  the  others;  and  sometimes  an  amused  little 
smile  hovered  on  her  lips,  as  if  at  a  joke  in  which  they 
had  no  share. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said  suddenly  one  day,  when  the 
smile  was  particularly  provoking  to  his  curiosity. 

She  started  and  flushed.  "What  is  what?"  She 
looked  guilty. 

"Have  you  eaten  the  canary?" 

"Do  I  look  like  the  cat?" 

"You  look  as  if  you  might  have  eaten  the  canarv." 

"Well,  I  haven't."  A  fresh  smile  flashed  out.  "But 
perhaps  I  shall,  yet." 

Then,  to  avoid  his  inquisitive  eyes,  she  asked  what  he 
was  doing.  She  and  Jessie  had  just  come  into  his  study 
for  their  lesson  and  he  had  not  yet  put  away  the  work 
which  had  engaged  him  at  their  entrance. 

"But  what  is  it  ?"  repeated  Isabel  as,  instead  of  answer- 
ing her  question,  he  continued  to  look  at  her. 

"It  is  proof,"  he  replied,  beginning  to  roll  up  the  long 
strips.     "Galley  proof  that  I  have  to  correct." 

"Oh,  let  me  see."  She  wondered  excitedly  whether 
she  would  ever  have  proof  of  her  own  to  correct.  "It 
must  be  awfully  difficult." 

167 


168  Isabel  Stirling 

"No,  you  can  learn  it  all  in  the  back  of  the  dictionary." 
He  was  laying  it  aside. 

"But  mayn't  I  look  at  it?  I  want  to  see  how  you  do 
it — and  I'd  like  to  see  something  that  is  going  to  be  in 
a  book.    Is  it  for  the  North  American?" 

"Sit  down  over  here  then,  and  I'll  give  you  a  five 
minutes'  lesson." 

She  and  Jessie  usually  placed  themselves  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table,  but  now  she  went  and  sat  beside  him 
while  he  made  the  cabalistic  marks  of  correction.  He 
explained  them  to  her  and  let  her  make  some  of  the 
corrections  herself.  And  then  an  odd  thing  happened 
to  him.  For  when,  in  her  absorption,  she  leaned  so  near 
him  that  her  hair  brushed  his  face,  he  found  that  he 
could  not  keep  his  mind  fixed  on  the  subject  of  proof 
corrections.  Instead,  he  was  seized  with  a  perfectly 
absurd  desire  to  kiss  the  pink  tip  of  her  little  ear.  He 
drew  back  hastily,  a  little  disconcerted  and  a  little  amused. 
He  wondered  what  she  would  say  if  he  yielded  to  the 
impulse. 

"Is  this  the  end?"  she  asked  regretfully,  as  she  fame 
to  the  bottom  of  the  long  strip. 

"This  is  the  end,"  he  replied,  rolling  it  up.  "You  make 
a  very  successful  proof-reader." 

"It's  great  fun,"  she  said,  as  she  went  back  to  her 
usual  place  beside  Jessie.  She  told  herself  joyfully  that 
it  was  a  good  thing  to  have  learned,  in  case  of  need. 

They  began  the  lesson,  but  both  teacher  and  pupil  were 
a  little  preoccupied.  It  had  just  occurred  to  Isabel  that 
she  might,  for  her  hero  of  fiction,  make  a  composite  of 
Lansing  Fordyce  and  Edmund — put  Edmund  in  For- 
dyce's  body.  She  had  such  opportunities  to  study  him 
and  this  time  she  would  be  absolutely  safe.  Edmund  was 
almost  like  a  brother.  But  somehow,  she  couldn't  quite 
see  him  in  Fordyce's  body.  She  was  looking  at  him  with 
a  fixed  gaze  of  which  she  was  unaware.  With  a  self- 
consciousness  which  was  new  to  him,  he  repeated  a 
question  impatiently,  but  she  did  not  hear  him. 


Isabel  Stirling  169 

"Do  you  think,"  she  asked  suddenly,  "that  people's 
souls  are  the  same  shape  as  their  bodies?" 

Jessie,  who  had  been  conscientiously  fixing  her  mind 
on  the  lesson,  looked  up  in  surprise,  and  Edmund 
laughed. 

"I  don't  quite  see  the  connection,"  he  said.  "How- 
ever— we  don't  mind  digressions.     Well,  I  hope  not." 

"Why?" 

"Because,  personally,  it  would  annoy  me.  It  might 
do  very  well  for  you  or  Jessie.  But  bodily,  you  see, 
I'm  not  as  tall  as  I  could  wish,  and  more  inclined  to 
fatness  than  I  find  pleasing.  I'd  like  to  think  of  my  soul 
as  more  symmetrical  than  my  body." 

"A  tall,  slender  soul?"  said  Isabel,  laughing  too,  but 
still  looking  at  him  with  that  odd  scrutiny. 

"Tall — yes;  slender,  if  you  like — but  not  meagre.  I 
shouldn't  like  a  meagre  soul." 

"An  Apollo  of  a  soul,"  put  in  Jessie.  "And  I  wonder 
what  mine  is  like." 

"Yours  is  like  you,"  said  Isabel.  "Awfully  sweet, 
but  with  a  nice  little  tang  to  it." 

"Shall  we  say  a  sort  of  worldly  Madonna?"  said 
Edmund. 

"Yes,  just  that.     And  mine?    What  is  mine  like?" 

"Yours  will  do  very  well  if  it  is  like  Isabel  Stirling." 

She  was  too  intent  on  following  up  the  subject  to 
notice  the  swift  look  he  gave  her.  "Seems  to  me  it 
might  do  better  than  that,"  she  said.  "I  want  a  pretty 
comparison  too." 

"She  doesn't  need  it!"  cried  Jessie.  "She's  the  only 
one  of  us  that  can  really  afford  to  have  the  soul  that 
goes  with  her  body." 

"I  wonder — "  began  Isabel,  and  stopped. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can." 

But  that  was  not  what  she  had  meant.  She  had 
seemed  suddenly  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her  soul,  and  she 
wondered  whether  it  might  not  be  too  well  housed  for 
its  deserts.  It  was  a  disconcerting  thought  and  she 
made  haste  to  put  it  aside,  while  she  told  herself  that 


170  Isabel  Stirling 

at  all  events  she  could  try  the  experiment  of  giving 
Edmund's  soul  the  tenement  he  thought  suited  to  it. 
She  only  said: 

"Please,    Teacher,   excuse   me    for    interrupting   the 
lesson." 


XXXII 

This  summer  was  very  different  from  the  last.  Cassie 
Maiden,  who  had  contributed  so  much  to  the  gayety  last 
year,  had  gone  abroad  with  her  father ;  and  Jessie  was 
engaged.  Ralph  Everett  had  been  faithful.  He  had  come 
back  to  finish  his  course  and  he  had  not  taken  her  refusal 
too  seriously.  Just  before  Commencement  she  had  ac- 
cepted him,  but  they  were  not  to  be  married  for  the 
present.  Isabel  had  a  wistful  feeling  of  being  left  alone. 
The  book  had  been  coming  on  spasmodically.  There  were 
days  and  weeks  when  she  was  horribly  tired  of  it  and 
wished  it  had  never  been  begun.  The  thing  which  was 
most  apt  to  send  her  back  to  it  was  the  recollection  of 
Edmund's  insinuation  that  her  industry  needed  the  spur 
of  appreciation.  "I  am  trying  it  on  the  desert  island," 
she  would  say  to  herself,  "and  I'm  going  to  do  it !" 

She  had  long  lost  sight  of  any  half -cherished  notion  of 
taking  Lydia  out  of  the  book.  She  was  too  important 
an  element  of  comedy.  Most  comic  of  all,  in  her  step- 
daughter's eyes,  was  her  friendship  with  Professor  Hyde. 
Up  to  the  time  of  his  going  away  for  his  vacation  he  had 
continued  his  visits  at  the  parsonage,  always,  Isabel  half 
unconsciously  noted,  on  the  afternoons  when  her  father 
made  his  parochial  visits  or  went  for  his  walk.  It  never 
occurred  to  her  innocence  that  married  men  and  married 
women  could  do  anything  out  of  the  way  in  their  friend- 
ships. Marriage  was,  to  her  thinking,  a  fold  within  which 
everyone,  or  at  least,  everyone  you  knew,  was  secure. 
But  it  certainly  did  strike  her  as  absurd ;  and  for  her  own 
purposes,  she  made  the  most  of  the  absurdity. 

When  she  got  warmed  up  to  her  work,  however,  she 
found  that  experimenting  with  Edmund's  soul  in  Lansing 
Fordyce's  body  was  even  more  entertaining  than  the  de- 

171 


172  Isabel  Stirling 

piction  of  Lydia  and  her  follies;  and  infinitely  more 
difficult.  The  intent,  unconscious  gaze  of  her  gray  eyes 
always  piqued  Edmund's  curiosity  and  discomfited  or 
attracted  him,  according  to  his  mood  at  the  time. 

"I'd  give  more  than  a  penny  to  know  what  you  are 
thinking  about,"  he  said  to  her  one  day  when  she  had  sat 
looking  at  him  for  some  moments  without  speaking. 

She  blushed  up  to  her  hair.  "It  wouldn't  be  worth  it — 
to  you,"  she  said,  laughing.  - 

"To  whom,  then?" 

"Oh,  not  to  anyone."  She  still  laughed.  She  hoped 
to  make  her  thoughts  worth  something  to  herself.    .    .    . 

In  September  the  book  was  drawing  to  its  conclusion. 
Eleanor  was  to  marry  the  composite  hero,  but  the  great 
love  scene  obstinately  refused  to  come  off.  And  then 
came  the  news  that  Amy's  baby  had  arrived. 

Duty  to  a  friend  required  an  early  visit,  but  Isabel 
went  with  shy  reluctance.  Eleanor,  she  reflected,  would 
be  living  in  the  house  with  it,  but  that  did  not  seem  to 
make  it  easier  for  Isabel. 

The  servant,  looking  somewhat  flustered  and  cross, 
showed  her  into  the  sitting-room,  from  which  Amy's 
bedroom  opened.  Although  it  was  a  warm  day  there 
was  a  fire  in  the  fireplace.  A  rack,  hung  with  various 
articles  of  infant  apparel,  was  standing  in  front  of  it  and 
the  room  was  pervaded  by  a  peculiar  smell  of  damp 
flannel,  unlike  anything  Isabel  had  ever  encountered  be- 
fore. Presently  a  fat  old  woman  came  from  the  bed- 
room and  spoke  to  her.  Trained  nurses  were  not  yet 
obtainable  in  country  towns  and  Mrs.  Brown  was  con- 
sidered a  good  nurse. 

"You  can  come  right  in,"  she  said,  and  Isabel  timidly 
followed  her  into  the  other  room.  She  went  up  to  the 
bed  and  kissed  the  pale  and  smiling  Amy.  Her  friend 
seemed  to  look  at  her  across  the  gulf  of  an  ennobling, 
but  terrifying  experience;  and  she  was  incomprehensibly 
absorbed  in  her  hideous  red  baby. 

"You  must  look  at  his  darling  little  feet,"  she  said; 


Isabel  Stirling  173 

and  made  the  nurse  unswathe  them  from  the  flannel 
coverings. 

Isabel  cared  nothing  for  babies'  feet. 

On  the  whole,  it  was  a  disillusioning  visit  and,  as  a 
result  of  it,  the  idea  of  marriage  nauseated  her.  Eventu- 
ally she  put  the  baby  into  the  book,  but  she  found  it 
more  difficult  than  ever  to  make  her  heroine  fall  properly 
in  love  with  her  hero.  Since  that  was  necessary  (for 
who  ever  heard  of  a  novel  where  the  heroine  did  not  fall 
in  love  with  anybody?)  she  made  a  tremendous  effort 
to  put  herself  back  into  the  frame  of  mind  of  a  year 
before ;  with  the  result  that  her  Eleanor  became  a  rather 
pathetic  picture  of  a  girl  yielding  herself  to  love  under 
protest  and  in  terror  of  the  traps  which  life  was  setting 
for  her. 

She  was  writing  with  determination  now,  intent  on 
finishing.  But  it  took  more  time  than  she  could  have 
imagined.  The  autumn  was  well  advanced  before  the 
final  chapter  was  written.  After  it  she  childishly  printed 
"THE  END"  in  large  capitals. 

Then  she  read  it  all  through  and  gloated  over  it.  It 
did  seem  to  her  so  remarkably  good.  She  hoped,  how- 
ever, that  her  characters  would  not  be  so  recognizable 
to  others  as  they  appeared  to  herself.  The  process  of 
fitting  them  into  their  places  in  the  tale  had  compelled 
some  modification  of  their  personality,  and  the  only  con- 
versations which  she  had  given  with  an  approach  to 
literalness  were  those  in  which  she  herself  had  taken 
little  part,  or  concerned  such  matters  as  everybody  in 
the  university  was  talking  about.  Certain  persons  must 
be  recognized,  but  they  were  public  characters,  of  whom 
anyone  might  write,  such  as  the  president  of  the  univer- 
sity, and  yes — Professor  Hyde.  She  had  a  well-founded 
idea  that  he  was  unmistakable.  But  personally  she  had 
had  little  to  do  with  him.  Possibly  the  most  searchingly 
faithful  portrait  was  that  of  Lydia,  but  a  Lydia  with 
raven  hair  and  olive  skin,  and  unmarried,  might  well  be 
unrecognizable,  at  any  rate,  to  herself. 

But  the  manuscript  seemed  portentously  long,  especially 


174  Isabel  Stirling 

in  view  of  the  fact  that  it  must  all  be  copied.  It  was 
written  far  too  carelessly  to  send  as  it  was.  She  had 
learned  from  Edmund  such  technical  details  as  writing 
on  one  side  of  the  paper  and  leaving  fair  margins,  but  of 
revision  she  had  hardly  an  idea.  What  she  had  written 
seemed  crystallized  and  unchangeable.  She  set  herself  to 
the  copying — a  weary  task,  during  which  she  welcomed 
every  interruption.  The  irksomeness  of  it  made  her 
desire  to  cut  the  manuscript  down  and  brought  about  a 
sort  of  accidental  revision.  Yet  in  this  she  was  after  all 
guided  by  a  natural  sense  of  proportion  and  an  instinct 
for  selection.  When  at  last  she  finished  her  copy  the 
novel  was  shorter  by  some  thousands  of  words  and  better 
put  together  than  it  had  been  in  its  first  writing.  She 
was  able  to  see  the  improvement. 

With  its  completion  came  the  necessity  of  considering 
what  was  to  be  done  with  it.  A  publisher  must  be 
found,  but  how?  It  seemed  impossible  for  her  to  manage 
the  affair  alone,  if  only  on  account  of  the  danger  entailed 
in  receiving  letters,  not  to  speak  of  a  possibly  returned 
manuscript.  But  dare  she  confide  in  anybody  ?  Edmund 
GifTord  was  the  one  person  in  the  world  who  could  be  a 
real  help,  but  he  was  sure  to  insist  on  reading  the  book, 
and  what  impediments  would  he  place  in  her  path  ?  Worst 
of  all,  would  he  recognize  himself  ?  Really,  she  thought 
not.  The  more  loverlike  she  had  made  her  hero,  the  less 
like  Edmund  he  had  been;  for  in  no  possible  guise  of 
body  could  she  picture  Edmund  as  a  lover. 

After  many  hesitations  she  decided  that  the  only  thing 
to  do  was  to  take  him  partially  into  her  confidence.  She 
did  not  mean  to  let  him  read  the  manuscript — but  if,  after 
all  he  insisted.    .    .    . 

She  flushed  with  pleasure  at  the  thought  of  his  appre- 
ciation. He  would  see  how  clever  she  was !  She  would 
speak  to  him  the  very  next  time  she  saw  him  alone. 


XXXIII 

It  seemed  that  a  quite  extraordinary  opportunity  was 
presenting  itself  to  Isabel  the  next  evening.  Her  father 
and  Lydia  had  gone  to  a  tea-party  to  which  she,  luckily, 
was  not  invited.  These  parochial  functions  were  not  to 
her  taste.  It  was  pleasant,  once  in  a  way,  to  have  the 
house  to  herself,  but  a  bit  lonely.  She  wished  there  were 
something  worth  while  to  do,  something  exciting.  She 
wandered  from  the  sitting-room  to  the  parlor  and  ex- 
travagantly lighted  several  gas  burners  there.  She  could 
put  them  out  before  Lydia  came  back.  The  air  seemed 
chilly.  It  was  already  winter  and  there  was  a  snow  flurry 
and  a  howling  wind.  If  she  could  only  put  out  the  fire 
on  the  hearth  as  easily  as  she  could  extinguish  the  gas 
she  would  light  that  too.  She  opened  the  register,  but 
she  wanted  the  fire.  Why  not  brave  Lydia' s  disapproval  ? 
She  stood  with  the  match  in  her  fingers  when  the  door- 
bell rang.  While  the  maid  was  answering  it  she  struck 
the  match  and,  stooping,  touched  it  to  the  kindling.  As 
she  stood  up  and  turned  around,  Edmund  Gifford,  of  all 
people,  came  strolling  in — Edmund,  who  was  hardly  ever 
known  to  come  to  the  parsonage.  It  seemed  unnatural 
and  a  little  awkward  to  see  him  there,  but  she  was  glad 
to  be  seen  in  a  cheerful  room.  Usually  the  maid  turned 
up  one  burner  on  her  way  to  open  the  door.  He  greeted 
her  in  his  usual  debonair  manner  and  then,  because  she 
could  hardly  imagine  his  coming  unless  on  some  errand 
from  Jessie,  she  asked: 

"Does  Jessie  want  me  to  come  over?" 

"Not  as  far  as  I  know,"  he  replied.  "I  dare  say  she 
may  want  you,"  he  added,  "but  you  see  you  can't  go — 
because  I  am  here."    He  pulled  a  low  chair  forward  to 

175 


176  Isabel  Stirling 

the  fire.  "Do  sit  down  here,"  he  said,  "and  then  I  can 
sit  down  too.  For  I've  come  to  pay  you  a  visit.  I  knew 
you  were  alone." 

Isabel  laughed  a  little  confusedly  as  she  obediently  sat 
down.     "Do  excuse  me,"  she  said,  "I  thought " 

He  threw  a  smile  across  to  her  as  he  helped  himself  to  a 
chair  and  pulled  it  cozily  near  to  the  fire  and  to  her.  "You 
thought  I'd  only  come  if  Jessie  sent  me?  But  why 
shouldn't  I  come  on  my  own  account?" 

"Well,  you  know,  you  never  do." 

"I  believe  I  don't,  very  often."  He  seemed  to  consider 
the  matter.  "It  would  appear  that  I  have  been  un- 
mannerly. You  see,  I'm  apt  to  think  that  you  belong  on 
my  side  of  the  fence." 

"I  know  I'm  there  a  good  deal  of  the  time,"  laughed 
Isabel.     "But  now  that  you're  here " 

And  then,  just  when,  having  gathered  up  her  courage, 
she  was  opening  her  mouth  to  speak  about  the  book,  he 
opened  his,  and  forever  silenced  her. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "I  almost  never  see  you  alone  over 
at  our  house — and  in  any  case — I  have  some  sense  of 
propriety." 

He  paused,  encountered  her  look  of  ingenuous  surprise 
and  curiosity  and  went  on: 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  look  quite  so  surprised,"  he  said. 
"It  isn't  encouraging." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  with  their  most  intent 
gaze.  It  seemed  so  curious  that  he  should  hesitate  and 
get  red.  It  was  embarrassing  too.  She  couldn't  think 
of  anything  to  say. 

"I  suppose  there  might  be  nice  ways  of  leading  up," 
he  said  at  last,  recovering  his  usual  whimsical  expression. 
"Indeed,  I've  thought  of  several,  but — they  don't  seem 
to  have  stayed  by  me.  We'll  let  preambles  go.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  know  that  you  have  stolen  my  heart?  I've 
come  to  ask  if  you  will  come  altogether  to  my  side  of 
the  fence." 

He  paused,  but  she  still  looked  uncomprehending,  al- 
though the  color  was  mounting  in  her  cheeks. 


Isabel  Stirling  177 

"My  dear,  will  you  marry  me  ?"  he  said  gently. 

For  a  moment  there  was  dead  silence.  Isabel  con- 
tinued to  stare  at  him.  Her  face  showed  nothing  but 
shocked  astonishment. 

"Are  you  still  so  surprised?"  asked  Edmund.  "Hasn't 
it  occurred  to  you  that  I  might  love  you  ?" 

"No,"  she  said,  in  a  husky,  unnatural  voice. 

"Then  I  must  tell  you  about  it." 

But  no  matter  how  clearly  or  even  how  ardently  he 
might  tell  her,  it  remained  incredible.  Of  course,  if  he 
could  be  in  love  at  all.  .  .  .  But  she  simply  could  not 
imagine  in  him  a  capacity  for  the  high  emotion  of  love. 
It  seemed  so  out  of  keeping  with  him.  Even  though  he 
used  the  words  of  love  and  in  the  manner  of  love,  she 
could  not  see  him  as  a  lover.  The  thought  did  indeed 
cross  her  mind  that  he  would  be  a  very  friendly  and 
pleasant  person  to  live  with,  if  one  didn't  have  to  marry 
him.  If  she  had  been  a  little  older  or  a  little  more 
worldly-wise  she  might  have  hesitated  and  weighed  the 
undoubted  advantages  of  a  marriage  with  Edmund,  but 
when  one  is  young  one  is  very  sure.  And  to  marry  him ! 
Against  her  will  Amy  Boyd's  baby-ridden  house  flashed 
to  her  mind.  The  thought  of  marrying  Edmund  gave 
her  an  aversion  to  him. 

"Oh,  why  did  you  change?"  she  asked,  when  he  at  last 
gave  her  a  chance  to  speak.  "You  were  so  nice.  Every- 
thing was  so  nice." 

"I  haven't  changed  really.  Suppose  you  take  a  little 
time  to  know  me  from  this  point  of  view.  I  didn't  realize 
it  would  be  such  an  entirely  new  one." 

"Oh,  time  won't  make  any  difference."  She  looked  at 
him  ruefully. 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"I'm  quite  sure.  I  can't  do  it.  I  can't  care  for  you 
that  way.    And  I'd  so  like  to,  if  I  could." 

"I  can't  believe  that  I  shall  not  persuade  you  to  care — 
after  a  while." 

"No,  never,"  she  said  decidedly.  "It  isn't  a  thing  I 
can  explain — but  I  know." 


178  Isabel  Stirling 

He  studied  her  face,  then  rose  to  his  feet.  "If  you 
know — I  suppose  there's  no  more  to  be  said." 

Upon  this  acceptance  of  the  situation  Isabel  found 
herself  overcome  with  remorse.  Did  it  always  have  this 
effect  when  one  innocently  studied  a  man  as  an  imaginary 
lover  ?  And  how  good  he  was,  how  different  from  Harry 
Burton,  with  his  reproaches. 

"It's  all  my  fault,"  she  said  despairingly.  "But  I  never 
meant  to  do  it." 

"Certainly  it's  not  your  fault,"  said  Edmund.  "My 
dear,  you  couldn't  help  my  falling  in  love  with  you.  You 
are  made  for  men  to  love."  He  held  out  his  hand. 
"Good-night." 

At  the  door  he  turned  back.  "I  have,  after  all,  a 
message  from  Jessie — that  is,  she  will  be  telling  you  her- 
self. She  will  be  busy  to-morrow  and  can't  have  a 
lesson.     I  think  we  had  best  give  up  lessons  for  a  time." 

"Yes,"  said  Isabel  sadly.  It  seemed  a  just  punishment 
to  be  banished  from  her  friend's  house.  "I  know — Jessie 
— none  of  you  will  want  me  any  more." 

"They  will  all  want  you  as  much  as  ever,"  he  said 
quickly.  "Surely  no  one  is  to  know  of  this.  As  to  the 
lessons — you  must  give  me  a  little  time.  I'm  not  exactly 
up  to  it  now.  I  shall  make  my  own  explanations  to 
Jessie.  She  is  absorbed  in  her  affairs  and  will  be  glad 
enough  to  be  let  off.  And  I — oh,  I  am  writing  a  book 
and  can't  be  interrupted — that's  all." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Isabel.  She  could  hardly  keep 
from  crying  then  and  there. 

When  he  was  gone  she  put  out  the  lights,  gave  a  glance 
at  the  fire  which,  from  lack  of  coaxing,  had  gone  out,  and 
crept  up  to  her  room.  Everything  seemed  miserable  and 
desolate.  If  she  could  only  have  cared  for  Edmund  how 
delightful  everything  would  have  been.  All  the  argu- 
ments came  to  her  now.  To  have  the  Giffords  for  her 
own  family,  to  be  free  from  her  father's  authority,  to 
have  her  own  position  in  the  world — and  plenty  of  money. 
And  Edmund  himself  was  so  delightfully  nice.  Why 
couldn't  she?    She  only  knew  that  if  she  tried  to  do  it 


Isabel  Stirling  179 

she  would  detest  him.  This,  she  reflected,  was  Fordyce 
Lansing's  doing.  He  didn't  want  her  himself  and  she 
had  got  over  wanting  him;  but  somehow  he  had  made 
it  impossible  for  her  to  care  for  anybody  else.  She 
thought  she  would  probably  never  be  in  love  at  all  any 
more. 

A  little  later  she  half  laughed  as  she  thought  how 
utterly  unlike  Edmund  the  hero  of  her  novel  was;  more 
unlike  than  ever  now  that  she  had  actually  seen  Edmund 
making  love.  Then  she  sighed.  Impossible  now  ever 
to  consult  him  about  the  book.  She  hated  the  book  and 
thought  that  she  might  put  it  into  the  fire  some  day. 


XXXIV 

But  after  all,  one  doesn't  burn  the  book  which  one  has 
spent  the  better  part  of  a  year  in  writing.  The  manu- 
script stayed  in  a  drawer  while  Isabel,  in  the  sackcloth 
and  ashes  of  repentance,  mourned  over  her  follies.  Too 
shamed  and  embarrassed  to  go  to  the  Giffords',  she  stayed 
away  until  Jessie  came  to  her,  asking  plaintively  what  she 
had  done  to  be  so  deserted.  Then  she  resumed  her  visits 
and,  reassured  by  the  normal  behavior  of  the  family,  was 
soon  spending  almost  as  much  time  there  as  ever.  Ed- 
mund's manner  to  her  was  so  unchanged  that  she  began 
to  wonder  whether  she  was  not  taking  the  matter  too 
seriously.  But  she  saw  him  less  often  than  before.  He 
spent  much  time  in  his  study,  presumably  writing  the 
book  which  was  the  excuse  for  giving  up  the  lessons.  She 
missed  the  lessons  and,  as  time  went  on,  she  missed  an 
intangible  something  in  Mrs.  Gifford's  manner  to  her 
and  wondered  how  much  she  suspected.  In  point  of  fact, 
Mrs.  GifTord  had  made  a  shrewd  guess. 

The  winter  was  not  in  any  way  a  repetition  of  the  last. 
For  one  thing,  the  Bellendens  were  no  longer  there  and 
there  was  very  little  gayety  at  Edgewood  Hall.  Major 
Bellenden  had  grown  tired  of  conditions  at  the  university 
and  had  asked  to  be  ordered  back  to  his  regiment  where, 
dropping  his  brevet  rank,  he  had  happily  resumed  the 
duties  of  a  captain.  They  had,  however,  kept  one  link 
with  Ptolemy  in  the  person  of  Lily  Brainard,  who,  after 
sedulously  cultivating  an  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Bellenden, 
had  now  been  rewarded  by  an  invitation  to  spend  the 
winter  with  her  in  the  heaven  of  an  army  post. 

For  the  rest,  Amy  Boyd  was  absorbed  in  her  baby  and 
her  domestic  economies,  and  Jessie  was  absorbed  in  her 
engagement.    As  the  edge  of  Isabel's  remorse  with  regard 

180 


Isabel  Stirling  181 

to  Edmund  wore  off,  her  desires  turned  again  to  her 
book.  After  all,  why  not  try  to  do  something  with  it? 
Keeping  it  in  a  drawer  was  not  going  to  undo  any  of  the 
mischief. 

But  the  old  difficulties  came  up  again.  She  could  not 
manage  the  affair  without  help.  She  hesitated  and  de- 
ferred ;  and  then,  one  spring  day,  went  to  Dr.  Brenton. 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself?"  he 
asked. 

"Lots  of  things,"  she  said.  And  then,  all  in  a  breath, 
she  told  him  that  she  had  been  writing  something  which 
she  was  sending  to  a  publisher  and  that  she  didn't  want 
her  father  or  Lydia  to  know  anything  about  it,  and  might 
she  give  his  address,  so  that  if  the  manuscript  were  re- 
turned, as  it  probably  would  be,  it  would  be  in  safe  hands. 

Dr.  Brenton  regarded  her  with  amused  indulgence. 
"I'll  take  care  of  it  for  you,"  he  said,  and  discreetly  sup- 
pressed a  chuckle.  So  the  child  was  trying  to  write. 
Well,  it  would  serve  to  amuse  her,  though  he  would 
rather  she  were  amusing  herself  with  beaux  and  junket- 
ings. 

"I've  taken  a  nom  de  plume,"  she  went  on.  "It  will 
be  directed  to  Miss  Mary  Mandeville,  in  your  care." 

An  assumed  name  did  not  please  Dr.  Brenton.  But 
after  all,  since  she  was  confiding  in  him,  where  was  the 
harm?  He  could  keep  her  from  getting  into  real  mis- 
chief, and  anyway,  it  was  all  child's  play.  He  agreed, 
and  then  forgot  the  matter  until  one  morning  the  parcel 
was  handed  in  at  his  door  by  the  expressman.  He  cer- 
tainly was  surprised  by  its  size. 

Isabel  received  it  from  him  with  that  blank  sensation 
which  is  not  unknown  to  better  writers  than  she.  She 
carried  it  home  and  thrust  it  disgustedly  into  its  familiar 
drawer,  but  pulled  it  out  again  when  the  letter  which 
should  have  preceded  it  turned  up.  Incredible  as  it  may 
seem,  the  manuscript  was  not  unconditionally  rejected. 
Selecting  the  publisher  of  whom  she  had  heard  Edmund 
speak  with  respect,  she  had  chanced  to  send  it  to  a  man 
who  was  notoriously  kind  to  beginners.    Moreover,  many 


1 82  Isabel  Stirling 

a  novel  was  published  in  those  days  which  in  this  era  of 
a  higher  standard  of  technique  would  not  get  past  the 
publisher's  reader.  That  lower  standard,  combined  with 
a  style  which,  immature  as  it  was,  possessed  a  certain 
vivacity  and  cleverness,  together  with  a  lifelikeness  in 
some  of  the  characters,  carried  it  along  to  be  passed  upon 
by  the  great  publisher  himself.  He  thought  it  showed 
promise  and  wrote  the  author  a  kind  letter,  suggesting 
certain  alterations,  after  which  he  would  like  to  look  at 
it  again. 

Had  the  young  writer  been  more  experienced  she  would 
have  been  yet  more  surprised  by  this  promising  opening, 
but  even  as  it  was,  she  was  breathless.  She  could  hardly 
wait  to  begin  the  revision.  Always  apt  at  profiting  by 
instruction,  she  could  see  the  faults  now  that  they  were 
pointed  out  to  her ;  could  even  see  farther.  She  hastened 
her  work,  but  did  not  scamp  it.  She  wrote  and  rewrote, 
determined  not  to  lose  her  chance  by  any  carelessness. 
In  the  end,  she  did  her  revision  passably  well. 

The  manuscript  did  not  return  from  its  second  journey. 
Instead,  came  a  letter  of  acceptance;  and  in  due  time 
bundles  of  proof  made  their  appearance. 

Never  was  the  way  made  easier  for  an  indiscreet 
author.  Dr.  Brenton,  overworked  and  worried  by  one 
of  those  epidemics  of  typhoid  which  visited  the  village 
in  the  days  when  people  still  clung  to  their  old  wells, 
hardly  noted  the  mail  which  Michael  laid  on  his  table, 
and  Isabel  helped  herself  to  such  of  it  as  belonged  to  her, 
excusing  herself  for  not  telling  him  of  her  success  by  the 
plea  that  he  had  no  time  to  attend  to  her. 


XXXV 

Isabel  sat,  ecstatic  and  a  little  terrified,  before  an  un- 
opened package  from  her  publisher.    The  book,  at  last ! 

The  expressman  had  left  it  at  Dr.  Brenton's  house  and 
the  doctor  was  out  when  Isabel  found  it  there,  in  his 
inner  office.  She  gazed  at  it  for  a  few  moments  before 
making  any  attempt  to  open  it.  Then,  searching  among 
the  papers  on  the  study  table  for  the  shears,  which  always 
lay  there,  she  sat  down  on  the  floor,  cut  the  string  and 
unfolded  one  layer  after  another  of  wrapping  paper.  At 
last  she  came  to  the  contents — six  copies  of  her  book  in 
bright  red  bindings  with  gilt  lettering  on  the  back.  Pal- 
pitating, she  took  up  one  of  the  volumes,  turned  it  over, 
and  finally  opened  it  at  the  title  page. 

BEHIND   THE    SCENES 
By  Mary  Mandeville 

For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  her  to  wonder  whether 
she  would  have  liked  to  see  her  own  name  there.  What 
an  excitement  there  would  be  if  she  could  take  a  copy  to 
Jessie  and  say — I  wrote  this ! 

Well,  there  was  Dr.  Brenton.  But  she  was  afraid  of 
Dr.  Brenton.  She  turned  the  leaves  and  found  that  she 
did  not  dare  to  read  a  sentence.  She  was  sure  that 
blunders  and  stupidities  would  stare  her  out  of  coun- 
tenance now  that  it  was  too  late  to  mend  them. 

She  sat  holding  the  book  in  her  hand,  wondering 
whether  she  would  venture  to  write  Dr.  Brenton's  name 
in  it.  Surely  that  would  not  betray  her  to  anyone  who 
might  chance  to  pick  it  up.  In  the  end  she  decided  not 
to  do  it.    Rising,  she  went  to  the  bookcase  where  he  kept 

183 


184  Isabel  Stirling 

the  few  novels  with  which  he  sometimes  beguiled  an  hour 
of  leisure.  She  squeezed  it  in  between  Vanity  Fair  and 
David  Copperfield  and  then  stood  off  to  get  the  effect. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  from  any  corner  of  the  room  she 
could  see  nothing  but  that  fresh  red  binding.  No  fear 
but  what  he  would  find  it.  Then  she  went  back  to  the 
pile  of  books  and  paper  on  the  floor,  took  out  another 
copy  to  smuggle  home  to  her  own  room  and,  tying  the 
pieces  of  cut  string  together,  made  the  package  up  again 
and,  opening  the  closet  door,  shoved  it  into  the  darkest 
corner.  Of  what  use  to  her  were  those  four  copies  ?  Of 
course,  as  she  still  assured  herself,  there  never  could  be 
anything  in  the  world  so  thrilling  as  to  receive  your  very 
own  book  from  your  very  own  publisher,  but  somehow, 
she  had  never  felt  quite  so  lonely  in  her  life. 

Late  that  night,  locked  in  her  room,  she  opened  her 
book  at  the  first  chapter  and  forced  herself  to  read ;  and 
after  the  first  few  pages  was  enthralled  by  the  contem- 
plation of  her  own  achievement.  It  seemed  to  her  better 
than  she  had  hoped — and  yet  worse;  more  dangerously 
recognizable.  How  soon,  she  wondered,  would  anyone 
in  Ptolemy  see  it  ?  Never,  she  almost  hoped ;  and  yet  was 
perishing  to  hear  their  comments. 

For  days  she  held  her  breath  when  she  walked  past 
the  Corner  Bookstore  and  then,  suddenly,  to  her  terror 
and  joy,  there  it  was  in  the  window.  And  presently  it 
was  being  talked  about  on  all  sides.  Ptolemy  never  had 
any  doubt  about  it.  No  other  town,  no  other  university, 
could  possibly  have  been  intended ;  and  as  it  was  the  first 
thing  of  the  kind,  the  excitement  was  the  greater.  Some 
bought  the  book,  others  thriftily  borrowed  it,  and  the 
village  library  invested  in  three  copies,  which  were  out 
all  the  time. 

But  who  was  Mary  Mandeville  ?  Everybody  asked 
everybody  else.  Opinions  varied.  There  was  some  in- 
clination to  fix  the  responsibility  on  the  wife  of  Professor 
Hardinge,  a  young  woman  who,  by  virtue  of  an  inde- 
pendent income  and  a  connection  with  leading  families  of 
New  York  and  Boston,  had  seemed  a  little  apart  from 


Isabel  Stirling  185 

the  general  life  of  the  university.  Mrs.  Hardinge  was 
known  to  be  clever  and  was  suspected  of  feeling  superior. 
Others,  however,  suspected  Miss  Emerson,  a  keen-witted 
spinster,  who  had  lived  in  Ptolemy  all  her  life  and  knew 
everybody,  old  and  new.  Mrs.  Hardinge  said  she  only 
wished  she  had  written  the  book;  it  must  have  been  a 
great  lark  for  somebody — although  if  she  had,  she  would 
perhaps  have  done  it  a  little  differently.  Miss  Emerson 
shook  her  head  and  said  it  would  have  been  as  much  as 
her  life  was  worth  to  have  written  it.  But  nobody  be-, 
lieved  denials. 

Undeniably  the  characters  were  done  from  life,  and  it 
was  naturally  a  favorite  amusement  to  fit  the  portraits  to 
the  originals.  Most  of  the  originals  failed  to  recognize 
themselves,  while  finding  much  amusement  in  pointing 
out  likenesses  to  other  people.  The  few  who  really  did 
see  themselves  took  it,  on  the  whole,  philosophically ;  and 
indeed,  the  portraits  were  not  all  unflattering.  And  per- 
sons who  were  not  in  the  book  at  all  longed  to  find  them- 
selves there.  The  president  of  the  university,  who  was 
touched  off  according  to  the  ideas  of  the  faculty  women 
who  thought  him  a  man  without  a  heart,  was  immensely 
amused.  "I'm  not  so  unsympathetic  as  all  that,"  he  said 
to  his  wife,  who  was  inclined  to  be  indignant,  "but  a 
person  who  can  see  only  one  side  may  very  well  think  so." 

The  author  made  a  mortal  enemy  of  the  woman  who 
thought  that  the  portrait  of  Lydia  was  intended  for  her, 
but  no  one  appeared  to  see  Lydia  in  the  book.  For  one 
thing,  Professor  Hyde's  philanderings  with  her  were  well 
kept  out  of  the  public  eye  and  the  university  people,  at 
least,  did  not  know  her  well;  and  since  she  was  repre- 
sented as  a  lady  of  Ptolemy,  the  town  was  searched  for 
her,  but  not  the  parsonage.  A  few  persons,  like  Miss 
Emerson,  and  the  Giffords,  undoubtedly  had  their  ideas 
on  the  subject,  but  they  discreetly  kept  them  to  them- 
selves. Edmund  Gifford,  Isabel  was  convinced,  saw 
through  the  whole  affair.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  he 
had  been  her  teacher  in  English.  Not  for  nothing  had  he 
learned  her  tricks  of  thought  and  manner.    He  emerged 


186  Isabel  Stirling 

from  his  retirement  and  lay  in  wait  for  her  with  a  light 
in  his  eye.  She  tried  to  avoid  seeing  him  alone,  but  one 
day  he  cornered  her.  She  was  spending  an  afternoon 
with  Jessie  when  he  came  into  the  room. 

"Mother  sent  me  for  you,"  he  said  to  his  sister.  "She 
wants  to  consult  you  about  something." 

As  Jessie  left  the  room  he  sat  down  by  Isabel,  picking 
up,  as  he  passed  a  table,  the  red-bound  book  which  figured 
so  prominently  just  then  on  many  tables. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  this?"  he  asked,  fixing  her 
with  his  bright  gaze.    "I  haven't  heard  you  say." 

Isabel  thought  she  had  learned  to  answer  that  question 
very  composedly.  She  always  told  the  truth  and  said  she 
liked  it  tremendously.  Now,  however,  she  found  herself 
for  an  instant  incapable  of  replying.  She  blushed  vividly 
and  the  more  she  was  enraged  at  herself  for  doing  so, 
the  more  agonizingly  the  color  mounted.  In  mercy,  Ed- 
mund cast  his  eyes  down  and  began  to  turn  the  leaves  of 
the  book.    But  he  was  not  done  with  her. 

With  his  gaze  removed,  she  made  shift  to  answer.  "I 
like  it  very  much,  indeed,"  she  said,  trying  for  her  usual 
tone. 

He  laughed  a  little.    "I  suppose  you  would,"  he  said. 

She  turned  on  him.  "Don't  you  like  it?"  She  had 
been  keenly  desirous,  all  along,  to  know  his  real  opinion. 
Her  mind  had  not  ceased  to  appeal  to  him  for  guidance. 

"I  like  it  in  spots,"  he  said.  "It  shows  cleverness  and 
promise.  Of  course  it's  indiscreet,  and  I  think  people 
are  generally  sorry  in  the  end  when  they  have  been  too 
indiscreet.  But  quite  apart  from  that  side  of  it,  judging 
it  from  the  literary  point  of  view,  it  has  merits  and 
faults." 

He  then  went  on  and  gave  her  a  rapid  analysis  of  the 
book,  pointing  out  faults  which  she  was  amazed  at  her- 
self for  not  having  seen  before,  praising,  too,  with  judg- 
ment, but  with  sympathy.  Wherever,  forgetting  person- 
alities, she  had  had  a  flash  of  insight  into  human  nature, 
or  had  toiled  to  get  the  right  phrase  or,  by  some  happy 
inspiration,  had  captured  the  illuminating  word,  there  he 


Isabel  Stirling  187 

never  failed  to  understand  and  to  appreciate.  When  they 
heard  Jessie  coming  downstairs  he  rose  and  laid  the  book 
on  the  table  again. 

"I  should  have  liked  so  much,"  he  said,  "to  be  of  use 
to  the  author  of  this  book.  I  think  I  might  have  helped 
in  the  making  of  it." 

"I  think  you  might,"  said  Isabel ;  and  there  is  no  telling 
what  else  she  would  have  said,  but  Jessie  was  already  in 
the  room. 

Anonymity  was  growing  tiresome  and  Isabel  would 
have  been  delighted,  now  that  the  ice  was  broken,  to  have 
endless  talks  with  Edmund,  but  he  withdrew  himself 
again  and  did  not  give  her  another  opportunity.  Very 
different  had  been  her  interview  with  Dr.  Brenton,  who 
lost  no  time,  once  he  had  discovered  and  read  the  book, 
in  taking  her  to  task.  To  him  it  seemed  that  Lydia 
leaped  from  the  page. 

"I  ought  to  have  been  told  about  this,"  he  said,  with  a 
severity  which  she  had  never  before  seen  in  him.  "You 
ought  to  have  shown  it  to  me." 

"I  thought  of  telling  you,"  she  faltered,  "but  it  was 
when  you  had  all  those  cases  of  typhoid  and  I  knew  you 
didn't  want  to  be  bothered  with  me." 

"You  ought  to  have  waited  till  I  could  attend  to  you. 
Oh,  I  suppose  I  was  too  easy-going.  I  ought  to  have 
looked  after  you  from  the  first  of  it."  His  exasperation 
with  her  seemed  to  increase  with  his  self-accusation. 
"Good  Lord  I"  he  exclaimed.  "Isn't  it  enough  for  a  young 
woman  to  have  your  good  looks  without  wanting  to  be 
a  blue-stocking  in  the  bargain  ?  How  many  people  know 
about  it?" 

"Nobody  but  you."  This  was  before  her  talk  with 
Edmund. 

"What  in  the  world  possessed  you  to  put  your  step- 
mother into  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  I — she — somehow  I  couldn't  get  away 
from  her.  Whenever  I  sat  down  to  write  it  seemed  as  if 
she  jumped  right  in.  I  tried  to  keep  her  out  at  first,  and 
then — well,  I  couldn't  resist  it.    And  I  thought  probably 


188  Isabel  Stirling 

the  book  would  never  get  printed  anyway.  And  I  don't 
think  people  really  suspect.  I've  heard  them  say  it  was 
other  people — or  nobody  at  all.  And  oh,  Dr.  Brenton" — 
tears  were  near  her  eyes,  but  a  smile  just  showed  itself 
at  the  corners  of  her  mouth — "you  can't  imagine  what 
a  comfort  it  is  to  find  just  the  right  words  for  a  person 
who  irritates  you — and  to  write  them  down." 

Dr.  Brenton  was  not  in  the  least  mollified.  He  tried 
not  to  see  the  fascination  of  her,  between  tears  and  smiles. 
"Now,  see  here,  Isabel,"  he  said  with  energy,  "you  must 
never  in  your  life  let  anyone  know  that  you  wrote  this 
book — and  you'll  have  better  luck  than  you  deserve  if  you 
don't  get  found  out.  Don't  you  see  that  it's  only  as  long 
as  people  don't  know  who  wrote  it  that  they  don't  see 
Lydia  in  it  ?  As  soon  as  they  suspect  you  they'll  see  her 
— as  I  did.    You  see  that,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  I  see.  But  I  never  did  want  anyone  to  know 
that  I  wrote  it." 

"The  time  is  sure  to  come  when  you  would  be  very  glad 
to  have  the  credit  of  writing  a  clever  book.  We're  all 
like  that — want  the  credit  of  our  cleverness." 

She  smiled  outright  now.  "I'm  so  glad  you  think  it's 
clever.  It's  the  first  nice  thing  you've  said — and  you  my 
only  confidant.    My  feelings  have  been  hurt." 

"Clever!  Yes,  you  haven't  any  right  to  be  so  clever. 
It's  unseemly.  And  now  mind  what  I  say,  Isabel.  You 
must  never  tell.  And  above  all,  your  father  must  never 
know — never !" 

"Oh,  I  hope  not!"  cried  Isabel  with  a  shudder. 

"I  might  ask  you  to  promise  me — but  I  won't.  You'll 
do  it  without.    And  promises — well.    I  don't  like  'em." 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  Isabel. 

Dr.  Brenton  was  still  unpacified.  "What  made  you 
think  of  writing  the  thing  anyway  ?"  he  asked,  his  brows 
drawn  together  in  a  frown. 

"I've  always  wanted  to  write — and  meant  to.  And 
besides,  I  hoped  I  might  make  some  money." 

"Money !  Good  Lord !  Isn't  your  Aunt  Eliza's  money 
enough  for  you  ?" 


Isabel  Stirling  189 

She  could  not  bear  the  scorn  of  his  tone.  "It  might  be 
if  Father  would  let  me  have  it !"  she  exclaimed,  her  voice 
shaking. 

Dr.  Brenton  had  been  walking  about  the  room.  Now 
he  sat  down.  "Tell  me  all  about  it,"  he  said  in  a  differ- 
ent voice,  grave,  but  no  longer  stern. 

"And  why,"  he  asked,  after  she  had  told  him,  "did 
you  never  tell  me  this  before?" 

"I  hated  to.    And  what  good  would  it  have  done?" 

"And  did  you  suppose  that  your  Uncle  Brenton 
wouldn't  help  you  out  ?  That  you  must  keep  it  all  to  your- 
self ?  And  write  a  book  with  Lydia  in  it — to  damn  you ! 
Oh,  good  Lord!  If  you  were  looking  for  destruction  I 
should  think  you'd  have  put "    He  stopped  in  time. 

"You  never  told  me  before  that  you  were  my  Uncle 
Brenton,"  said  Isabel,  half  laughing,  half  crying.  "I 
love  you  to  be  my  Uncle  Brenton,  even  if  you  do  sc-scold 
me."    The  tears  got  the  upper  hand. 

He  took  her  hand  and  patted  it.  "Well,  you  know  it 
now,  and  I've  finished  my  scolding.  Poor  child,  you've 
had  enough  trouble.  And  now — as  your  uncle — what 
can  I  do  ?  I  suppose  you're  clean  out  of  money.  William 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  money,"  she  cried.  "I  don't  want 
any!"  ^ 

"No?  Well,  I  didn't  give  you  a  Christmas  present, 
did  I  ?  Or  a  birthday  present?  I  want  to  be  a  real  story- 
book uncle,  while  I'm  about  it." 

"Oh,  you  are,  you  are !  And  you  know  the  book  really 
will  give  me  some  money." 

"Confound  the  book !  It  was  an  evil  imp  that  set  you 
to  writing  it."  He  paused  and  added  seriously:  "I  hope 
you  will  never  write  another — but  there's  no  telling — 
once  you  get  that  bee  in  your  bonnet.  And  so  now  let 
me  give  you  a  piece  of  advice.  If  ever  you  want  to  put 
any  of  your  acquaintances  in  print,  don't  serve  'em  up 
raw.  Let  them  simmer  a  good  long  while.  Let  people 
recognize  boiled  mutton  if  you  like,  but  don't  let  them 
know  which  sheep  it  was." 


XXXVI 

The  first  cheque  from  her  publisher  was  an  experience 
which  would,  Isabel  felt,  be  unmatched  by  anything  else 
that  could  ever  happen  to  her.  She  opened  the  letter  in 
her  usual  refuge,  the  doctor's  inner  office.  The  color 
flew  to  her  face  and  her  heart  seemed  to  double  its  beats. 

"Look !"  she  cried,  holding  it  out  to  him. 

He  shook  his  head  over  it,  started  to  speak  and  checked 
himself.  Why  not  let  her  have  what  pleasure  she  could 
get?    "Wonderful!"  he  said. 

She  came  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  "You're 
not  really  pleased.  You  think — you  think  it's  the  wages 
of  sin." 

He  laughed.  "You  put  it  strongly.  But  what  do  you 
think,  yourself?" 

She  examined  the  cheque.  "What  do  I  think?  I  think 
this  is  the  most  perfectly  beautiful  piece  of  paper  I  ever 
saw  in  my  life.  Look!  One  thousand  dollars.  And 
anyway,  the  sinful  part  is  only  a  little  bit  of  that.  Per- 
haps a  tenth.  I'll  give  a  tenth  to  somebody  who  needs 
it  dreadfully.  But  not  to  missionaries.  I  tell  you  what, 
Uncle  Br  en  ton,  you  must  know  some  poor  people  who 
need  money.    You  can  give  it  for  me." 

"Conscience  money?"  But  his  tone  was  gentle.  "You 
can't  get  rid  of  responsibility  as  easily  as  that." 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  know  that?"  she  exclaimed  with 
sudden  vehemence.  "Don't  you  suppose  I'm  sorry  I  did 
it?  Why,  every  time  Lydia  is  a  little  nice  to  me  I  feel 
like  a  beast.  And  she  does  mean  to  be  nice  to  me  some- 
times—only I  hate  her  way  of  doing  it.  But  things  can 
never  be  undone— don't  you  suppose  I  realize  that  ?  And 
so  marry  times  can't  even  be  confessed.     I  think — I've 

190 


Isabel  Stirling  191 

thought  before — it  must  be  nice  to  be  a  Roman  Catholic 
and  confess  to  a  priest,  who  doesn't  really  care  what  you 
do,  and  then  you  have  it  off  your  mind  and  it  doesn't 
do  him  any  harm." 

"Do  you  know,  I  sometimes  think  so  too."  He  paused, 
thinking  of  the  confessions  which  had  been  made  to  him 
and  of  his  inability  to  grant  an  absolution  which  would 
satisfy  a  dying  penitent.  "But  you  and  I  are  not  Cath- 
olics, my  little  Isabel.  Now,  Mary  Mandeville  must 
endorse  that  draft  and  I'll  see  that  it  gets  into  Isabel 
Stirling's  bank  account." 

"And  you'll  take  the  hundred  dollars  for  some  of  your 
poor  people?  And  don't  call  it  conscience  money.  I'd 
love  to  give  it.  I've  so  hated  Father's  way  of  making 
me  give." 

"We'll  talk  about  that  later,"  he  answered,  and  at  that 
she  had  to  leave  it.    .    .    . 

After  her  long  time  of  leanness  financial  prosperity 
increased  astoundingly  that  year.  Her  next  surprising 
experience  had  also  to  do  with  money.  Dr.  Brenton  had 
told  her  that  when  her  twenty-first  birthday  came  she 
ought  to  claim  from  her  father  the  right  to  control  her 
own  matters.  As  it  happened,  he  gave  her  the  quarterly 
remittance  a  few  days  before  that  time.  She  put  it  away 
and  waited. 

On  her  birthday  Dr.  Brenton  invited  her  and  Jessie 
to  supper  and  Norah  made  a  beautiful  cake,  but  at  home 
no  notice  was  taken  of  it.  No  notice  ever  had  been  taken 
of  it  there.  Dr.  Stirling  made  little  of  any  anniversary 
and  this  one  in  particular  was  a  day  of  bitterness  to  him. 
As  for  Lydia,  as  long  as  Isabel  made  no  mention  of  it, 
she  quite  forgot  it.  Several  days  passed,  and  Isabel  won- 
dered that  her  father  omitted  his  usual  demand  for  the 
money.  He  happened  to  be  particularly  absorbed  in  his 
studies.  He  remembered,  at  last,  however,  and  stopped 
her  after  breakfast  with  the  command  to  come  to  his 
study  with  the  cheque. 

She  went  to  his  study,  but  did  not  carry  the  cheque 
with  her.    "I  warit  to  tell  you,"  she  began,  breathlessly—' 


192  Isabel  Stirling 

"I  want  to  tell  you/'  she  said  again,  and  again  stopped. 
She  really  could  not  get  her  breath. 

"Yes?"    He  turned  on  her  a  look  of  surprised  inquiry. 

"I  was  twenty-one  last  Tuesday,"  she  said  baldly. 

He  turned  his  desk  chair  around  to  face  her  more 
directly.  There  was  a  little  more  interest  in  his  eyes. 
He  looked  as  he  did  when  he  began  those  dreadful 
exhortations  about  the  affairs  of  her  Soul.  She  hastened 
to  forestall  him. 

"It's  about  my  money,"  she  said,  awkwardly  standing 
before  him.  He  had  not  asked  her  to  sit  down.  "I  think 
I  might  have  control  of  it  now."  She  had  no  breath  left 
and  her  eyes  dropped  before  the  severity  of  his  regard. 
Try  as  she  would  to  assert  herself,  she  never  ceased  to 
be  afraid  of  him. 

He  took  his  time  about  replying,  still  fixing  her  with 
that  gaze.  When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  cold  and  his 
utterance  deliberate.  "Your  moral  claim  to  indepen- 
dence," he  said,  "is  no  greater  than  it  has  been  at  any 
time  in  your  life." 

She  was  glad  she  had  not  brought  the  cheque,  for  fear 
tempted  her  to  yield.  She  gathered  up  her  courage.  "But 
I'm  legally  of  age,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Her  father  smiled  grimly.  "In  this  State  you  were 
legally  of  age  when  you  were  eighteen,  but  I  have  not 
considered  myself  absolved  on  that  account  from  my 
guardianship." 

"I  didn't  think  I  ought  to  say  anything  until  I  was 
twenty-one." 

"There  is  no  magic  about  twenty-one.  Until  you  show 
fitness  to  be  trusted  you  should  remain  under  tutelage." 

At  this  her  indignation  rose  and  it  was  easy  to  speak. 
"But  I  have  the  right  now  to  take  charge  of  my  own 
money,"  she  said  with  spirit. 

He  looked  thunderous,  made  a  quick  gesture  and 
seemed  on  the  verge  of  speech;  then  turned  his  chair 
away  from  her  and  gazed  frowningly  at  the  table  for  a 
moment.  Turning  back  to  her,  he  addressed  her  with 
a  frigid  politeness  new  to  her  in  her  discussions  with  him. 


Isabel  Stirling  193 

"Do  I  understand,"  he  said,  "that  you  stand  on  your 
legal  rights?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  and  wondered  at  her  own 
courage. 

He  opened  a  drawer  of  his  table  and  took  out  a  little 
leatherbound  book.  "Then  I  shall  give  you  an  account," 
he  said,  "of  such  of  your  money  as  has  remained  in  my 
hands.  It  is  all  deposited  in  your  name  in  the  Savings 
Bank,  and  this  is  your  pass-book.  He  held  it  out  to  her 
with  an  air  of  dismissal. 

"But  I  don't  understand!"  she  exclaimed  in  bewilder- 
ment. "I  didn't  suppose  you  had  any  money  of  mine 
except  what  you  gave  to  the  missionary  societies." 

"I  requested  you  to  give  the  money  and  you  refused. 
As  you  were  legally  of  age  at  eighteen  I  would  not  use 
your  money  without  your  consent — although  I  could  and 
do  command  your  obedience  in  all  other  matters,  as  long 
as  you  are  an  inmate  of  my  house." 

"But  Father!"  If  he  had  only  known  it,  she  felt  at 
that  moment  an  immense  admiration  for  him. 

"There  is  nothing  more  to  say,  I  think."  He  still 
offered  her  the  book,  but  now  with  some  inquiry  in  his 
glance. 

She  took  the  book  and  his  eyes  ceased  to  question  her. 
He  turned  away.  "Will  you  leave  me  to  my  work  now," 
he  said  coldly. 

"But  there  is  something  more  to  say !"  She  hoped  she 
wasn't  going  to  cry.  "I  have  been  unjust  to  you,"  she 
said  in  a  voice  which  trembled,  in  spite  of  her  efforts. 

"That  is  of  no  account."  He  arranged  his  paper  for 
writing. 

She  felt  her  emotion  checked  and  when  she  spoke 
again  her  voice  was  steady.  "I  want  you  to  give  this 
money — all  of  it — for  the  things  I  supposed  all  along 
you  had  spent  it  for." 

"Keep  your  money." 

"How  can  you  refuse  it — for  the  missions?"  she  asked. 

He  sat  motionless  for  a  moment.  "Very  well,"  he 
then  said,  "you  can  give  it  to  them  on  your  own  account." 


194  Isabel  Stirling 

"But  that  will  be  just  what  you  didn't  want.  The 
giver  was  to  be  unknown  and  the  money  was  to  go 
through  you.  Do  you  want  my  name  to  appear?  I  will 
do  just  as  you  wish  about  it." 

"It's  rather  late  in  the  day  for  that."  Her  submission 
did  not  mollify  him.    He  felt  baffled  and  worsted. 

In  the  end,  however,  he  was  compelled  by  his  con- 
science to  accept  the  charge,  feeling  that  she  had  eluded 
him.  Isabel  sat  down  at  the  other  side  of  the  table  and 
wrote  her  cheque. 

"I  wish  we  could  understand  each  other  better,"  she 
said  wistfully,  as  she  handed  it  to  him. 

"I  wish  we  could,"  he  replied.  "I  am  ready  to  meet 
any  real  evidence  of  filial  feeling  on  your  part." 

"But  I've  tried.    I'm  trying  now." 

"Now  that  you  have  gained  your  point." 

There  was  the  rub.  She  had  come  off  conqueror.  He 
took  up  his  pen  and  began  to  write. 

Isabel  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute.  Then  she  opened 
the  door  and  left  the  room  with  a  sigh  of  discouragement. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  gained  her  own 
room,  "I  really  do  wonder  whether  I  should  have  had 
the  strength  of  mind  to  be  so  magnificent  with  my  money 
if  I  hadn't  already  had  a  lot  in  the  bank?" 


XXXVII 

"In  the  sight  of  God  I  may  be  as  good  as  a  soldier,"  said 
Edmund  in  Isabel's  ear — he  had  been  placed  beside  her 
in  the  pew  and  the  little  old  organ  was  bravely  sounding 
forth  Mendelssohn's  Wedding  March  as  the  procession 
came  slowly  up  the  aisle — "but  in  the  eyes  of  woman  I 
am  as  dust  beside  him." 

"I  think  they  are  perfectly  beautiful,"  said  Isabel. 

"Well,  yes,  they  are,"  he  said,  smiling  at  the  back  of 
her  head.  "It's  only  my  mean  envy  which  makes  me 
seem  to  scoff.  I'll  take  it  all  back.  I  might  even  enlist, 
if  one  could  enlist  as  an  officer — especially  if  I  could  be  as 
goodlooking  as  young  Maiden." 

"Which  is  he?"  asked  Isabel,  interested  to  see  Cassie's 
brother. 

"The  tallest  one  with  the  splendid  figure,  walking  with 
the  first  bridesmaid.    Haven't  you  ever  seen  him  ?" 

"Once."  She  recalled  the  big  boy  who  came  running 
down  the  steps  on  that  memorable  day  when  she  ran 
away  and  went  home  with  Cassie.  Good  gracious !  Who 
would  ever  have  thought  he  could  grow  up  like  this? 

But  they  were  at  the  chancel  now,  and  Edmund  could 
make  no  more  comments. 

It  was  Lily  Brainard's  wedding.  As  a  result  of  her 
winter  at  an  army  post  she  was  marrying  young  Lieu- 
tenant Hazelton,  who,  as  it  happened,  was  Dick  Maiden's 
dearest  friend;  and  directly  after  her  return  home  she 
had  taken  herself  and  her  good  Presbyterian  parents  into 
the  bosom  of  the  Episcopal  church.  The  gossips  main- 
tained that  it  was  with  an  eye  for  a  more  picturesque 
setting  for  a  military  wedding,  but  Lily  herself  said 
that  it  was  because  it  was  her  duty  to  be  of  the  same 
religion  as  Frank. 

During  the  reception  at  the  Brainards'  house,  Isabel 

195 


196  Isabel  Stirling 

had  a  better  chance  to  look  at  Dick  Maiden.  He  was  far 
better-looking  than  Cassie;  tall,  broad-shouldered  and 
erect,  with  light  brown  hair  from  which  the  gold  had  not 
all  disappeared,  and  the  bluest  of  eyes  which  looked  with 
a  goodnatured  twinkle  out  of  a  sunburned  face.  That 
cheerful  expression  was  the  only  thing  that  reminded  her 
of  the  freckled  boy.  There  were  not  many  freckles  left. 
He  was  a  great  contrast  to  his  friend  Hazleton,  who 
was  shorter,  slimmer,  with  dark  hair  and  eager,  bright 
dark  eyes. 

"That  boy,"  commented  Edmund,  who  was  still  by  her 
side,  "looks  too  sensitive  for  a  girl  like  Lily.  She's  a 
cold-blooded  little  fish." 

Isabel  ceased,  after  a  while,  to  be  amused  by  Edmund. 
She  felt  out  of  it  all  and  a  little  dispirited.  Lily  had 
asked  her  to  be  a  bridesmaid,  but  her  father  had  refused 
and  she  had  herself  felt  resentful,  on  her  father's  account, 
of  the  Brainards'  defection  from  his  church. 

She  had  a  passing  word  with  each  member  of  the 
bridal  party,  as  she  went  past  them  in  the  line  of  guests, 
and  once  or  twice  she  caught  Dick  Maiden's  eyes,  with  a 
look  of  interest  in  them,  but  she  had  none  of  the  good 
times  which  they  were  having  with  each  other.  How 
tiresome  it  was! 

There  was  almost  a  riot  on  the  sidewalk  when  the 
bride  and  groom  pushed  their  way  through  the  group  of 
hilarious  young  people.  Isabel,  standing  back  from  the 
crowd,  felt  more  out  of  it  than  ever. 

Very  different  was  Jessie's  wedding  two  days  after. 
Isabel  had  participated  in  the  joys  of  the  trousseau,  hung 
with  rapture  over  the  wedding  gown  and  greedily  wel- 
comed each  gift  that  came  for  the  bride.  She  herself, 
with  her  new  riches,  had  been  able  to  buy  a  beautiful 
present,  as  well  as  a  most  satisfactory  bridesmaid's  cos- 
tume. In  all  these  preparations  she  really  displayed  far 
more  enthusiasm  than  Jessie,  who,  while  not  uninterested 
in  her  bridal  appurtenances,  went  about  rather  silently, 
with  an  uplifted  look.  Isabel  liked  Ralph  well  enough, 
but  wondered  that  he  could  inspire  such  an  expression. 


Isabel  Stirling  197 

What  lightened  her  heart  more  than  anything  was  the 
disappearance  of  the  slight  constraint  of  which  she  had 
been  conscious  in  her  relations  with  Mrs.  Gifford.  She 
became  again  as  much  the  child  of  the  house  as  ever.  She 
was  not  without  consciousness  that  Edmund  made  it  easy 
for  her.  He  did  not  keep  out  of  the  way  as  he  had 
done  at  first,  and,  as  far  as  she  could  see,  his  manner 
was  as  debonair  as  ever.  She  wondered  whether  he  really 
had  cared  so  very  much  after  all.  Perhaps  his  mother 
wondered  too." 

It  was  a  home  wedding,  very  simple  and  cheerful.  As 
Isabel  looked  at  Jessie,  fair  and  sweet  in  her  white  dress 
and  bridal  veil,  she  wondered,  as  all  girls  wonder,  when 
it  would  be  her  turn  to  have  orange  blossoms  and  tulle 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  most  fascinating  costume  in  the 
world,  worn  only  for  an  hour  in  a  lifetime,  but  involving 
so  much.  She  wondered  whether  she  could  ever  under- 
take all  that  it  involved.  All  through  the  ceremony  she 
was  dreaming,  wondering.   .    .    . 

But  directly  after,  there  were  other  things  to  take  up 
one's  attention.  There  was  the  bride  to  be  kissed,  and 
there  were  the  guests  who  came  up  to  salute  the  newly 
married  pair  and  who  had  plenty  of  compliments  for  the 
pretty  bridesmaids.  The  big  old  house  was  quite  full  of 
friends,  old  and  new,  to  enjoy  the  lavish,  old-fashioned 
hospitality  with  which  the  marriage  of  the  only  daughter 
was  celebrated.  Among  the  rest  was  Dick  Maiden,  look- 
ing almost  as  handsome  in  his  citizen's  clothes  as  he  had 
done  in  his  uniform.  Again  Isabel  had  only  a  passing 
word  with  him,  although  she  had  seen  his  eyes  fixed  on 
her  from  across  the  room.  But  when  he  came  to  speak 
to  her  Ralph's  tiresome  best  man  interrupted.  And  this 
time  it  was  she  who  must  be  engrossed  with  the  bridal 
party.    She  wished  he  had  been  among  them. 


XXXVIII 

Once  more  summer  had  come,  after  a  long  and  some- 
what dreary  winter.  Isabel  had  thought  to  write  another 
novel ;  something  which  she  could  acknowledge.  But  she 
could  never  get  beyond  the  first  chapter.  The  trouble 
was,  she  didn't  really  want  to  write.  What  she  wanted, 
whether  she  knew  it  or  not,  was  to  live ;  and  life  seemed 
at  a  standstill. 

But  now  the  town  began  to  stir,  in  preparation  for 
Commencement.  The  Maidens'  house  was  opened;  Ed- 
mund Gifford  engaged  his  passage  for  Europe;  and 
Jessie  wrote  that  she  couldn't  come  home  at  all  this 
summer,  but  would  her  mother  come  to  her  in  July. 
Isabel  caught  her  breath  at  the  news.  It  was  pretty 
serious  business  getting  married. 

It  was  a  vacant  morning.  Isabel  had  long  ago  ceased 
to  offer  the  assistance  in  household  matters  which  her 
stepmother  did  not  desire;  yet  to  Lydia,  in  spite  of  her 
recent  progress  toward  emancipation,  there  seemed  some- 
thing immoral  in  a  grown-up  woman  occupying  herself 
with  a  book  during  the  morning  hours. 

"It  is  such  a  pity,"  she  remarked  for  the  thousandth 
time,  as  she  passed  through  the  sitting-room,  "that  you 
are  not  more  industrious  with  your  needle.  Some  day 
you  may  be  sorry  that  you  have  not  a  store  of  nicely  made 
underclothes.  That  is — "  she  paused  at  the  door — 
"that  is,  if  you  don't  spoil  your  prospects  by  being  too 
fanciful.  Remember  that  she  who  goes  through  the 
wood  may  pick  up  a  crooked  stick  at  the  last." 

"I've  heard  so  much  about  that  crooked  stick,"  said 
Isabel,  lifting  scornful  eyes  from  her  book. 

"Even  the  crooked  stick  may  not  wait  for  you,"  re- 

198 


Isabel  Stirling  199 

torted  Lydia,  shrugging  her  shoulders  and  raising  her 
sandy  eyebrows  as  she  left  the  room. 

Isabel  threw  down  the  book  impatiently.  Why  must 
Lydia  be  so  vulgar?  She  picked  up  her  broad-brimmed 
hat  and  put  it  on  as  she  went  out  of  doors.  Through  the 
gate  she  went  and  up  the  hill,  and  then  along  the  road 
to  the  left  toward  Edgewood  House.  Passing  it,  she 
crossed  the  bridge  over  the  creek  that  raced  and  tumbled 
far  below,  between  its  precipitous  banks,  stopping  for  a 
moment  to  look  down  over  the  rail.  Then  she  went  on 
along  the  road  through  the  campus,  past  the  professors' 
houses  and  the  ugly  gray  stone  buildings,  and  out  on  the 
farther  side.  Here  the  sound  of  rushing  water  warned 
one  of  the  neighborhood  of  the  larger  stream  with  its 
foaming  waterfalls.  A  thick  growth  of  trees  partially 
hid  it  from  view  as  one  walked  along  the  road. 

Isabel  went  on  until  she  came  to  an  open  space  from 
which  she  could  see  the  largest  of  the  seven  cataracts 
sweeping,  all  white  with  spray,  into  the  deep  gorge  below. 
Here  she  left  the  road  and  went  through  the  narrow  belt 
of  trees  to  the  edge  of  the  ravine.  There  was  a  grassy 
spot,  quite  out  of  sight  of  passers-by,  where  she  liked  to 
sit,  watching  the  fall,  which  seemed,  in  its  rush,  to  clear 
her  mind  of  vexing  thoughts.  Indeed,  for  a  while  she 
was  not  consciously  thinking  of  anything  at  all  as  she 
sat  there,  her  hands  clasped  about  her  knees,  gazing  down 
at  the  white  sheet  of  foam.  At  last,  with  a  long  breath, 
her  body  relaxed  its  tenseness,  her  hands  dropped  to  her 
lap  and  she  leaned  back,  half  reclining  on  the  bank.  Vague 
thoughts  drifted  through  her  mind,  disconnected,  flitting. 
She  thought  of  Jessie.  In  all  Jessie's  letters  there  was 
such  a  tone  of  happiness.  Did  it  really  make  people  so 
happy  to  be  married?  She  wondered  whether  she  herself 
was  always  to  go  on  just  as  she  was  now.    .    .    . 

After  a  while  she  realized  that  the  morning  had  slipped 
away  and  that  she  ought  to  be  getting  home.  She  ro9e  to 
her  feet,  but,  still  loth  to  go,  she  walked  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  dirt",  and,  with  one  arm  around  a  slender  tree, 
stood  for  some  time  looking  over  into  the  whirlpool  far 


200  Isabel  Stirling 

below  at  the  foot  of  the  fall.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
heard  but  the  rush  of  the  falling  water,  but  suddenly 
something  made  her  turn  her  head.  Behind  her,  a  little 
higher  up  the  bank,  but  so  near  that  by  stretching  out  an 
arm  he  could  have  touched  her,  stood  a  man.  Instinc- 
tively she  grasped  the  tree  more  firmly  as  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  his  face. 

"Oh !"  It  was  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  recog- 
nition.   The  man  was  Dick  Maiden. 

He  called  out  to  her  at  once,  in  a  quick,  imperative 
tone:    "Come  up  right  away!    That  place  isn't  safe." 

She  smiled  at  him,  but  did  not  move.  "How  do  you 
do,"  she  said.    "I'm  not  in  the  least  danger." 

"Come  up !"  he  repealed  brusquely.  "That  place  where 
you  are  hasn't  much  support.     Your  weight " 

Her  face  changed.  She  grasped  the  hand  which  he 
was  holding  out  and  in  an  instant  was  well  up  the  bank, 
far  away  from  the  edge.  "I  thought,"  she  said,  rather 
breathlessly,  "that  you  meant  I  would  get  dizzy,  and  I 
knew  I  wasn't  going  to." 

"I  was  poking  about  down  below  and  saw  you  there.  I 
hurried  up  and  then  didn't  dare  speak  for  fear  I'd  startle 
you.    I  was  so  relieved  when  you  turned  around." 

"I  must  have  felt  you  looking  at  me." 

"I  wonder.  I've  been  hoping  to  see  something  of  you 
this  time,  but  I  certainly  didn't  want  to  start  out  by  seeing 
you  slip  over  a  precipice.  I  never  seemed  able  to  do  more 
than  catch  glimpses  of  you  last  time  I  was  here — what 
with  one  wedding  and  another.  It  seems  funny,  you 
know,  that  I'd  never  seen  you  before  then." 

"You  had — but  you'd  forgotten  me." 

"Oh,  come  now !    I'd  not  have  forgotten  you." 

She  smiled  at  his  indignant  tone.  It  was  a  bit  of 
flattery  which  was  not  unpleasing.  "Well,  at  any  rate,  I 
saw  you — and  you  seemed  to  look  at  me  for  a  moment. 
I  was  about  six,  I  think.  You  were  bigger.  It  made  an 
impression  because  I  had  run  away  and  gone  home  with 
Cassie.  I  had  the  most  beautiful  time.  But  you  see, 
you  don't  remember  me." 


Isabel  Stirling  201 

"I  suppose  I  was  at  the  stupid  age — and  always  up  to 
some  mischief  or  other.  That  was  all  I  thought  of  then. 
But  why  did  you  disappear  after  that?" 

"I  was  away — years  and  years.  It  was  only  when  I 
came  back,  grown  up,  that  I  knew  Cassie  again." 

"And  then  I  was  away." 

As  she  looked  up  and  met  the  frank  and  merry  gaze  of 
his  blue  eyes  they  seemed  to  tell  her  that  the  lost  time 
was  to  be  made  up.  What  he  said,  however,  was  that  he 
was  only  to  be  at  home  for  a  week.  As  they  walked 
down  the  hill  together  he  told  her  that  he  was  going  for 
a  short  trip  abroad.  That  was  why  he  had  taken  such  a 
short  leave  last  year — to  have  a  little  more  time  now. 

"I'd  have  saved  all  last  year's  leave  for  it,"  he  said, 
"only  for  Frank's  wedding.  I  had  to  come  for  that.  You 
see  I  couldn't  get  off  when  the  rest  of  the  family  went,  so 
I  get  my  turn  later." 

She  sighed  with  envy.  How  splendid  to  be  a  man  and 
go  off  like  that,  without  any  fuss. 

"But  I  wish  I  were  going  to  be  at  home  longer,"  he 
ended. 

She  glanced  up  at  him.  Those  blue  eyes  had  a  singular 
directness  of  gaze. 

At  the  parsonage  door  she  invited  him  in  with  some 
trepidation.  It  was  nearly  dinner-time.  Her  father  was 
likely  to  appear  at  any  minute  and  she  had  long  ago 
learned  of  his  aversion  to  Peter  Maiden;  an  aversion 
which  she  was  quite  aware  included  his  family.  That  he 
was  fortunately  still  unaware  of  her  friendship  with 
Cassie  was  due  partly  to  his  inattention  to  the  details  of 
her  life  and  partly  to  Cassie's  protracted  absences.  She 
had  no  wish  to  hasten  the  discovery.  Still,  since  she 
conceived  that  politeness  required  that  Dick  should  be 
asked  to  come  in,  she  invited  him.  To  her  relief,  he  de- 
clined.    His  father  and  Cassie  would  be  expecting  him. 

"But  you'll  let  me  come  another  time?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  do  come  another  time,"  she  answered  cor- 
dially. 

She  was  turning  to  go  in,  not  thinking  of  shaking 


202  Isabel  Stirling 

hands  at  such  an  informal  parting,  but  he  held  out  his 
hand  and,  of  course,  she  responded.  She  rather  liked 
the  way  he  shook  hands.  His  clasp  was  just  firm  enough 
and  not  too  impressive. 

To  her  vexation,  her  stepmother  met  her  in  the  hall. 
"Wasn't  that  Dick  Maiden?"  asked  Lydia  with  an  interest 
that  seemed  excited. 

"Yes,"  replied  Isabel  briefly. 

Lydia  had  it  on  the  end  of  her  tongue  to  say  that  it 
was  lucky  "dear  Father"  had  not  seen  him,  but  stopped 
herself.  The  girl  was  so  contrary  that  she  would  be  quite 
apt  to  show  her  independence  by  mentioning  the  matter  at 
the  dinner  table.  Instead,  she  only  said:  "I  hear  he  .is 
to  sail  for  Europe  very  soon." 

"So  he  says,"  said  Isabel. 

"Well,"  said  Lydia,  "I  hope — "  Isabel  turned  her  back 
on  her  and  started  upstairs.  "I  hope  all  you  young  people 
will  have  a  good  time  while  he  is  here,"  finished  Lydia. 


XXXIX 

Followed  a  week  of  junketings,  driving  parties,  lake 
parties,  picnics,  lunches  and  suppers;  and  in  whatever 
vacant  hours  were  left,  visits  from  Dick.  Isabel  knew 
she  would  have  enjoyed  it  all  more  if  Lydia  had  not  been 
so  transparently  intent  on  keeping  her  father  from  seeing 
young  Maiden.  Did  Dick  chance  to  be  in  the  parlor 
when  the  study  door  opened  and  the  minister's  steps 
were  heard  coming  along  the  hall,  Lydia  at  once  came 
from  her  little  room,  where  she  seemed  always  to  be 
lying  in  wait,  and  under  pretense  of  a  message  to  be  de- 
livered to  someone  whom  he  would  be  likely  to  see,  or  a 
question  as  to  something  which  must  be  attended  to  in 
his  absence,  or  perhaps  merely  a  good-bye,  steered  him 
out  of  the  house;  and  as  she  passed  the  parlor  door, 
always  ahead  of  him,  it  would  be  gently  swung  to  a  little, 
just  enough  to  keep  him  from  seeing  who  might  be 
within.  The  idea  that  Dick  might  notice  these  devices 
made  Isabel's  cheeks  burn  and  she  was  sometimes 
tempted  to  thwart  Lydia  by  calling  out  to  her  father  as 
he  passed.  But  that  would  be  the  most  unnatural  thing 
she  could  do;  and  if  he  once  came  in  and  saw  Dick,  he 
was  quite  capable  of  making  things  openly  unpleasant. 
She  reflected  with  exasperation  that  her  father  could  be, 
by  turns,  the  politest  and  the  rudest  man  she  had  ever 
seen,  depending  on  which  was  uppermost,  the  good  breed- 
ing acquired  from  his  mother,  or  the  resentment,  which, 
when  disguised  as  righteous  disapproval,  was  on  occasion 
allowed  free  play.  Besides,  Dick  probably  saw  nothing 
unusual  in  Lydia' s  attentions  to  her  husband ;  and  then — 
she  herself  enjoyed  Dick's  visits  and  would  have  been 
sorry  to  have  them  ended. 

"Why,"  said  Lydia  from  time  to  time,  "why  have  you 

203 


204  Isabel  Stirling 

given  up  your  favorite  little  spot  down  by  the  gate,  under 
the  apple-tree?  It  is  such  a  pretty  spot.  You  ought  to 
show  it  to  Mr.  Maiden." 

The  shortest  way  of  meeting  this  was  by  apparent 
acquiescence.    "Another  time,"  Isabel  would  say. 

True,  it  was  a  pretty  spot,  and  not  only  out  of  sight  of 
her  father,  but  out  of  reach  of  Lydia,  but  it  recalled 
Lansing  Fordyce  too  insistently.  Not  that  it  gave  her 
pain  any  longer  to  be  reminded  of  Fordyce.  Simply,  she 
had  a  dislike  to  the  idea  of  receiving  Dick's  visits  there. 
Without  putting  it  into  words,  she  felt  that  she  could 
not  deliberately  place  Dick  in  surroundings  which  were 
not  primarily  his  own.  Comparing  the  two  men,  Fordyce 
seemed  to  her  artificial.  Dick  was  so  natural.  He  was 
not  particularly  intellectual,  like  the  professors;  he  was 
not,  in  fact,  as  clever  as  Cassie ;  but  he  was  alert,  quick- 
witted, and  of  a  sort  of  shining  cleanness,  both  of  mind 
and  body.  In  his  society  Isabel  found  herself  happy  and 
at  her  ease.  She  told  herself,  however,  that  he  was  not 
in  the  least  the  kind  of  man  she  could  fall  in  love  with. 
She  had  of  late  been  forming  her  taste  on  certain  superior 
young  professors,  and  had  built  up  for  herself  an  ideal 
lover  who  should  combine  their  excellences  of  intellect 
with  the  distinction  of  look  and  charm  of  manner  with 
which  they  were  not  invariably  dowered.  But  it  was 
nice  to  be  singled  out  by  the  man  whose  advent  had  caused 
a  flutter  among  the  other  girls ;  nice  to  have  him  devote 
himself  to  her  so  exclusively.  She  thought  she  would  like 
to  have  him  as  fond  of  her  as  he  was  of  Cassie.  He 
was  very  fond  indeed  of  Cassie. 

"I  wish  I  had  a  brother,"  she  said  to  Cassie.  "I  can't 
think  of  any  better  kind  of  relation  to  have." 

"Not  even  a  husband?"  asked  the  sister,  who  was 
sufficiently  observant  of  Dick. 

"Far  nicer  than  a  husband,"  said  Isabel  with  convic- 
tion.    "It's  all  so  natural  and  no  complications." 

Still,  she  had  not  yet  begun  to  feel  that  aversion  to  a 
man  who  was  not  a  brother  which  she  had  experienced  on 
other  occasions. 


XL     ' 

Dick's  steamer  was  due  to  sail  the  next  day;  and  he  and 
his  father  were  smoking  together  on  the  verandah  after 
luncheon. 

"I  suppose  you  are  taking  the  night  train?"  said  Peter 
Maiden. 

Dick  flushed  and  didn't  reply  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
said  abruptly:  "What  would  you  say  if  I  gave  up  my 
passage  and  stayed  home  ?" 

Peter  Maiden  would  have  been  less  surprised  if  he 
had  paid  more  attention  to  the  doings  of  the  young  people. 
He  was  not  slow,  however,  in  forming  a  surmise.  He 
took  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  and  gave  his  son  a  long, 
shrewd  look.    "Who  is  it  ?"  he  asked. 

Dick  flushed  again  and  laughed.  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  looking  off  through  the  thick  foliage  of  the 
horse-chestnut  trees  to  the  street  beyond.  "You  were 
always  on  to  me,"  he  said,  "ever  since  the  time  when  I 
ran  away  from  my  first  school  to  go  swimming." 

"You  weren't  out  of  kilts."  His  father  leaned  back 
and  stroked  his  heavy  gray  mustache,  chuckling  at  the 
remembrance. 

"And  when  any  other  little  chap  would  have  been 
spanked  and  put  to  bed,  you  hired  a  man  to  teach  me 
to  swim." 

"You  would  have  run  away  over  again — and  I  didn't 
want  to  have  you  drowned.    I  was  that  selfish." 

"And  when  I  ran  away  to  enlist  you  caught  up  with 
me  and  got  me  into  West  Point.  I  can't  thank  you 
enough  for  that." 

"Well?"  The  cigar  had  gone  out  and  Peter  Maiden 
tossed  it  away. 

"Well  —  I  suppose  I've  been  fighting  shy  of  your 
question."  * 

"Don't  tell  me  if  you'd  rather  not." 

205 


206  Isabel  Stirling 

"Oh,  I  don,t  mind  telling  you — want  to,  in  fact.  Only 
there's  nothing  to  it  yet.  And  perhaps  there  won't  be — 
though  I  don't  believe  that.  I  want  to  marry  Isabel  Stir- 
ling. And  so  I've  got  to  stay  here  and  see  if  I  can  get 
her." 

"The  parson's  daughter!"  Peter's  lips  drew  up  as  if 
to  whistle,  but  he  stopped  himself.  Selecting  a  cigar  from 
the  box  on  the  table  beside  him,  he  cut  the  end  off  and 
lighted  it. 

"I  know.  You've  no  cause  to  like  Dr.  Stirling.  I  dare 
say  it  seems  to  you  pure  cussedness  in  me  to  have  fallen 
in  love  just  there.  But  Isabel  isn't  to  blame  for  her 
father.     You'll  like  her.     Don't  you  know  her?" 

"By  sight.  A  pretty  girl.  No,  I  don't  like  the  parson 
and  he  don't  like  me.  And  of  the  two,  I  guess  I've  the 
most  cause  for  a  quarrel.  I  let  him  alone,  but  he  wouldn't 
let  me  alone." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments  while  Peter 
puffed  violently  at  his  cigar,  sending  out  clouds  of  smoke. 
"I  wouldn't  have  had  it  happen,"  he  said  at  last,  frown- 
ingly. 

Again  silence.  Then — "Have  you  got  it  hard?"  said 
Peter. 

"Yes." 

"And  for  keeps?" 

"For  all  my  life." 

Again  a  pause.  Peter  Maiden  lifted  his  tall,  heavily 
built  form  out  of  the  deep  chair  in  which  he  had  seated 
himself  to  take  his  ease  and  walked  to  the  verandah  rail. 
He  gazed  off  to  the  horizon  and  up  to  the  sky  which 
showed  blue  through  the  tree-tops.  He  sighed  once  or 
twice.    Then  he  turned  and  came  back  to  Dick. 

"Well,  son,"  he  said,  "you're  a  man  and  you  are  free 
to  make  your  own  choice.  If  the  girl  will  have  you — 
and  I  don't  see  why  she  shouldn't — and  if  she  can  get 
away  from  the  parson  long  enough  to  marry  you,  we'll 
give  her  a  welcome." 

Dick  got  up  and  took  his  father's  hand  in  a  tight  grip. 
"Thank  you,  father,"  he  said. 


Isabel  Stirling  207 

Later,  he  walked  up  to  the  parsonage.    .    .    . 

"I  suppose  this  is  good-bye,"  said  Isabel,  as  he  took  his 
leave. 

She  was  a  little  piqued  by  his  cheerfulness  and  made 
her  own  manner  as  gay  as  possible,  although  really  she 
found  herself  very  low-spirited. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Dick,  "I'm  not  going  anywhere." 

"Not  going  anywhere  ?  Why — but  you  sail  to-morrow, 
don't  you?"    She  quite  failed  to  understand. 

Tffl  not  going  to  sail  at  all." 

"But  what  a  dreadful  disappointment!"  It  did  not 
seem  possible  to  her  that  anyone  could  voluntarily  give 
up  such  a  trip  for  any  reason  whatever. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why  I'm  staying?" 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  ask."  But  she  hoped  he  would 
tell  her  and  let  her  sympathize. 

He  looked  at  her  intently.  "I  don't  exactly  mind  tell- 
ing you — but — "  He  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "You 
see — "  he  began  again  quickly  and  with  an  air  of  deter- 
mination. 

Suddenly  she  understood.  She  interrupted  him  with  a 
foolish  automatic  remark  and  talked  on,  her  heart  beating 
furiously  and  her  cheeks  crimson. 

Not  for  worlds  would  she  have  had  him  tell  her.  She 
ran  away  from  him  as  actually  as  though  she  had  bodily 
turned  and  fled,  instead  of  standing  quietly  beside  him 
and  talking  with  nervous  rapidity  about  the  first  thing 
that  came  to  her  lips. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  smile  in  his  blue  eyes.  Yes, 
he  had  frightened  her.  He  saw  that.  And  he  knew 
that  she  was  running  away.    But  he  was  not  discouraged. 


XLI 

It  was  always  Dick's  impression  that  Isabel  was  running 
away.  He  had  no  wish  to  hurry  her.  The  weeks  of  his 
leave  stretched  out  long  before  him.  He  thought  she 
liked  him  really,  and  that  when  the  time  should  come  for 
him  to  try,  he  could  overtake  her.  Meantime,  he  took 
her  driving,  rowing,  sailing.  He  sequestered  her  in 
corners  of  verandahs  on  moonlight  evenings ;  he  sat  next 
to  her  at  the  picnic  luncheons;  he  walked  with  her  over 
the  hills.  Encouraged  by  her,  he  talked  of  his  army 
life,  but  having  no  inherent  inclination  to  talk  about  him- 
self, he  said  little  of  his  personal  experiences.  But  by 
degrees,  he  found  himself  becoming  less  articulate  and 
there  were  pauses  in  his  talk ;  pauses  which  she  hastened 
to  fill  up.    And  the  weeks  slipped  by. 

Isabel  felt  that  she  was  playing  an  exciting  game ;  play- 
ing always  for  time.  In  her  intervals  of  solitude  she 
was  thinking;  questioning  herself,  doubting  herself. 
Doubting  herself  the  more  because  she  remembered  so 
distinctly  how  entirely  without  doubt  or_question  she  had 
been  four  years  ago,  when  Lansing  Fordyce  had  made 
love  to  her.  She  didn't  for  a  moment  doubt  Dick.  He 
inspired  her  with  unquestioning  confidence.  She  was 
troubled  only  about  herself.  She  liked  him — immensely. 
She  was  perfectly  satisfied  when  they  were  together.  Her 
heart  quickened  at  his  coming.  And  yet — and  yet — it 
was  not  the  headlong  rapture  of  adoration  which  she  had 
once  felt.  That  Lansing  Fordyce  should  have  bereft  her 
of  a  capacity  for  the  fine  ardor  with  which,  as  she 
conceived,  one  should  meet  the  awakening  of  true  love, 
was  one  more  count  against  him.  To  have  to  ask  oneself 
if  one  loved  seemed  to  her  a  treason  against  love.  And 
the  anxious  question  perhaps  indicated  that  it  was  not, 
after  all,  true  love  that  one  felt.  And  so  the  sooner 
Dick  went  his  ways,  the  better  for  them  both.     But  at 

208 


Isabel  Stirling  209 

the  thought,  panic  seized  her.  She  did  not  want  him  to  go 
his  ways.  And  so  she  greeted  him  with  welcoming 
smiles  and  then  used  all  her  wits  to  keep  him  from  bring- 
ing matters  to  a  crisis. 

But  the  limits  of  patience  are  set  by  the  limits  of  time ; 
and  time  did  at  last  begin  to  press.  When  only  two 
weeks  of  his  leave  were  left,  Dick  resolved  not  to  be  put 
off  any  longer.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  speak  out,  no 
matter  how  many  obstacles  she  put  in  his  way.  He 
would  do  it  before  he  slept.  Yet  it  seemed  as  if  his 
resolution  were  to  be  defeated. 

It  was  already  midday  when  he  made  this  pronounce- 
ment to  himself.  In  the  afternoon  there  was  a  long 
drive,  followed  by  a  picnic  supper.  The  party  was  large 
and  merry  and  privacy  was  out  of  the  question.  It  must 
be  afterwards  then,  although  at  that  hour  one  did  not 
usually  pay  a  visit.  One  usually  left  a  girl  at  her  own 
door  and  went  on.  However,  when  he  helped  Isabel  out 
of  the  carriage  at  the  door  of  the  parsonage  he  did  not 
leave  her. 

"Go  on  without  me,"  he  called  to  the  others.  "I'm 
going  to  walk  home." 

Then,  to  Isabel:  "May  I  come  in?" 

He  might  have  chosen  rather  to  detain  her  in  the 
porch,  but  a  light  in  the  room  above  warned  him  that  they 
might  be  overheard  through  the  open  window. 

If  he  once  came  in  she  felt  that  she  would  not  be  able 
to  prevent  him  from  saying  what  he  wanted  to.  Besides, 
by  all  Ptolemy  m  standards  of  propriety,  it  was  not  a 
fitting  hour  for  a  visit. 

"It's  late,"  she  said,  "I  don't  believe " 

"No,  it  isn't  too  late,"  he  replied,  holding  the  door 
open  for  her  to  go  in. 

Too  embarrassed  to  know  how  to  meet  the  situation, 
her  heart  beating  fast,  she  entered  in  silence  and  stood 
undecidedly  in  the  hall.  It  was  he  who  led  the  way  into 
the  parlor.    She  walked  about  the  room  aimlessly. 

"It's  going  to  rain  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "We  shan't 
be  able  to  go  on  the  lake." 


210  Isabel  Stirling 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  How  could  he  speak  to  her 
when  she  was  half  turned  away  from  him  and  never 
still? 

She  dropped  into  a  chair,  but  he  remained  standing. 
Still  she  babbled  on  about  the  weather,  the  picnic,  any- 
thing.   He  stood  looking  down  at  her. 

"But  you  know,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  came  in  to-night 
to  ask  you  a  question.  I've  been  trying  all  day  to  get  a 
chance  to  ask  it.    I  think  you  know  what  it  is." 

"Oh,  no!" 

The  exclamation  was  involuntary  and  sounded  more 
dreadfully  final  than  she  could  have  wished.  "Wait!" 
she  added  faintly.    She  was  quite  breathless. 

"But  I've  waited.  I  knew  you  wanted  to  wait.  And 
now  there's  no  time  to  wait  any  longer.    Isabel " 

A  step  on  the  stair  stopped  him.  In  the  open  doorway 
appeared  Dr.  Stirling.  In  his  room  above,  where  he  was 
just  beginning  to  undress,  he  had  heard  the  sound  of  their 
voices.  Lydia,  in  bed,  had  heard  them  too,  and  had  tried 
in  vain  to  distract  his  attention.  There  were  certain  rules 
of  propriety  that  must  be  observed,  and  once  his  attention 
was  called  to  the  infraction,  he  was  ready  to  enforce 
them.  Nobody  must  be  admitted  to  the  house  after  ten 
o'clock;  least  of  all,  a  masculine  visitor.  Sternly  he 
put  on  his  coat  again. 

"Good  evening,"  said  he  stiffly,  as  he  entered  the  room. 

"Good  evening,"  returned  Dick  politely. 

Dr.  Stirling  turned  to  Isabel.  "I  haven't  the  pleasure 
of  your  friend's  acquaintance." 

"It's  Mr.  Maiden,  Father,"  she  said.  "Lieutenant 
Maiden."  Oddly  enough,  she  had  regained  her  self- 
possession  and  was  filled  with  an  excited  curiosity  to  see 
what  would  happen. 

Her  father  looked  at  Dick,  who  acknowledged  the  in- 
troduction formally.  For  a  moment  no  one  said  any- 
thing.   Then  stiffening  still  more,  Dr.  Stirling  spoke: 

"I  do  not,"  he  said,  "allow  my  daughter  to  bring  in 
any  visitor  at  this  hour  of  the  night.  I  do  not  allow  her 
to  bring  in  Lieutenant  Maiden  at  any  time." 


Isabel  Stirling  211 

Except  for  the  flush  which  mounted  to  his  cheek,  Dick 
appeared  perfectly  cool.  "May  I  ask,  sir,  what  is  your 
objection  to  me  ?"  he  said. 

"I  need  not  state  my  objection.  It  is  sufficient  that  I 
do  not  permit  you  to  visit  my  daughter." 

Dick  had  not  really  thought  that  the  old  feud  would 
be  carried  as  far  as  that,  even  though  he  knew  that  as  a 
son-in-law  he  would  be  persona  non  grata.  He  glanced 
at  Isabel  and  surely  her  eyes  signalled  encouragement.  "I 
am  very  sorry  you  feel  that  way  about  me,"  he  said,  "for 
I  hope  that  your  daughter  will  permit  me  to  ask  your 
consent  to  our  marriage." 

Isabel  had  seen  her  father  turn  pale  with  anger  before, 
but  she  had  never  seen  him  look  as  he  did  now.  He  stood 
for  a  moment,  visibly  struggling  for  self-control,  his  face 
setting  in  deeper  lines. 

"My  daughter  will  not  marry  you,"  he  said  at  last, 
very  slowly. 

"She  must  tell  me  so  herself,"  said  Dick.  He  was 
facing  the  older  man  with  a  fine  gleam  in  his  blue  eyes. 
Now  he  turned  to  the  girl.    "Isabel,  will  you  marry  me  ?" 

"Yes,  Dick,"  she  answered.  There  was  not  a  moment's 
doubt  or  hesitation. 

"Isabel,  go  to  your  room !"  said  her  father. 

"Yes,  Father."  She  was  glad  to  get  away  while  Dick 
was  still  there.  Not  willingly  would  she  have  faced  her 
father  alone. 

Dick  had  started  toward  her.  She  gave  him  her  hand 
for  an  instant.     "Good-night,"  she  whispered. 

"Good-night,  dearest,"  he  said  huskily. 

At  the  door  she  looked  back.  Her  father  was  holding 
himself  rigidly.  After  all,  he  was  a  splendid  figure, 
standing  there  in  his  anger.  A  queer  throb  of  pride  in 
him  gave  her  courage  to  speak.  "Father,"  she  said,  "I'm 
sorry  it  has  to  be  like  this." 

"Go !"  he  said,  in  his  stern,  level  voice. 

As  soon  as  she  was  gone  he  turned  to  Dick.  "Go !"  he 
said.    "And  never  come  into  this  house  again." 

And  Dick  went,  quite  willingly  and  cheerfully. 


XLII 

When  summoned  into  her  father's  study  the  next  morn- 
ing Isabel  was  no  longer  afraid  of  him.  But  although  the 
climax  of  his  anger  seemed  to  be  past,  his  resolution  was 
no  less  fixed.  She  must  give  up  all  acquaintance  with 
every  member  of  the  Maiden  family.  That  was  his 
command  and  he  expected  unswerving  obedience. 

"But  I  have  promised  to  marry  Dick,"  she  replied. 

"I  will  see  to  it  that  you  do  not,"  replied  her  father. 
"I  think,"  he  added,  "that  you  are  hardly  in  your  right 
mind.     You  will  promise  to  do  as  I  bid  you." 

"But  I  am  of  age,"  she  returned. 

"You  are  under  my  care.  It  is  my  duty  to  protect 
you  from  yourself." 

He  could  not  extract  the  promise  from  her,  but  she 
uttered  no  more  words  of  defiance. 

"Until  you  promise,"  he  said  finally,  "I  shall  see  that 
you  have  no  opportunity  to  disobey  me." 

There  the  conversation  ended,  but  it  had  its  results. 
To  Isabel,  who  had  known  no  petty  restrictions,  the 
orders  which  followed  were  galling  to  the  last  degree. 
Hardly  less  irksome  were  they  to  Lydia,  in  whose  charge 
William  placed  the  girl,  with  directions  not  to  let  her  go 
out  of  the  house  alone,  and  not  to  let  the  young  man  in. 

"Surely  you  managed  very  stupidly,"  she  complained 
to  Isabel.  "You  knew  how  your  father  would  feel  about 
it.    Why  did  you  let  Dick  Maiden  come  in  so  late  ?" 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  said  Isabel  irritably.  "When  a 
person  asks  to  come  in  it  is  awkward  to  tell  him  he  can't. 
Besides — I  hate  to  be  always  deceiving.  And  anyway, 
Father  would  have  had  to  know  soon." 

"You  really  mean  to  marry  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  you  are  of  age." 

212 


Isabel  Stirling  213 

Isabel  made  no  reply. 

"Of  course  you  know  I  must  obey  your  dear  father," 
Lydia  went  on,  "and  never  let  you  go  anywhere  without 
me — though  I'm  sure  I  hate  to  be  a  jailer,  and  I'd  never 
have  dreamed  of  doing  such  a  thing.  I  hope  your  father 
will  relent  in  a  little  while,  but  now,  as  your  Dick  will 
be  going  away  so  soon,  I  will  do  all  I  conscientiously 
can  to  help  you."  She  smiled  archly.  "A  little  note 
came  this  morning."  She  took  it  out  of  her  pocket  as 
she  spoke. 

Isabel  accepted  the  note  eagerly,  although  she  hated 
that  arch  smile,  hated  to  take  her  stepmother  into  any 
sort  of  partnership,  hated  the  deceit  of  it.  She  started 
hastily  to  go  up  to  her  own  room. 

"You  won't  read  it  here  ?"  said  Lydia.  "Well,  I  know 
just  how  you  feel  about  it.  And  when  you  get  a  little 
answer  ready  I'll  see  that  it  gets  to  its  destination." 

Isabel  hesitated  at  the  door.  "Underhand  things  are 
too  horrid,"  she  said.  "But  I'll  have  to  answer  it.  Any- 
body would  know  that  I  must  write  this  once.  And — 
thank  you."    With  this  she  vanished. 

Lydia  was  distinctly  less  bored  now  that  she  was,  as 
she  felt,  to  have  charge  of  the  love-affair.  Not  only  did 
she  naturally  love  intrigue,  but  she  was  firmly  resolved 
that  what  she  considered  so  good  a  marriage  should  not 
be  allowed  to  fall  through. 

Isabel  cherished  her  first  love-letter  and  read  it  over 
and  over.  Dick  wrote  that  of  course  he  must  see  her. 
Since  he  couldn't  go  to  the  house — and  as  he  wrote,  his 
mouth  set  firmly  on  the  thought  that  he  could  go  to  no 
house  whose  master  had  turned  him  out — would  she  see 
him  elsewhere — wherever  she  might  choose. 

He  said  many  other  things — things  that  were  sweet  to 
read.  She  sat  down  at  her  desk  to  answer  him.  She 
told  him  what  her  father  had  said,  and  that  of  course 
she  would  make  no  such  promise;  for  how  could  she, 
when  she  meant  to  see  him  as  soon  as  possible.  And 
just  here  she  stopped  to  wonder  at  the  way  all  her  doubts 
and  hesitations  had  disappeared,  from  the  moment  when 


214  Isabel  Stirling 

she  saw  Dick  confronting  her  father  with  that  light  in  his 
blue  eyes.  Then  she  told  him  how  Lydia  had  been  ap- 
pointed her  warder;  and  here,  as  she  went  on  to  say, 
came  the  difficulty.  "I  think,"  she  wrote,  "that  she  would 
let  me  see  you.  She  has  given  me  your  note  and  will 
send  you  mine.  But  it  seems  too  perfectly  horrid  to 
make  her  break  faith  with  my  father.  She  owes  him 
loyalty,  for  she  has  accepted  the  charge  of  me.  So  I 
don't  want  to  use  her  as  a  means  of  seeing  you  or  corre- 
sponding with  you — and  I'd  hate  to,  anyway.  If  I  can 
escape  her  genuinely  I  will  do  it.  Surely  you  will  under- 
stand how  it  is.  Saturday  afternoon  Father  will  be  out 
and  I  think  Lydia  has  some  affairs  of  her  own  and  very 
likely  will  forget  all  about  me.  So  if  you  will  go  up  to 
the  place  where  we  first  met  and  you  kept  me  from  fall- 
ing over  the  cliff  (how  glad  I  am  that  you  did  keep  me 
from  falling)  I  will  come  there  if  I  can — and  I  think 
I  can.  .    .    ." 

She  found  him  waiting  for  her.  She  had  walked  rap- 
idly up  the  hill  and  along  the  campus,  but  when,  through 
the  trees,  she  saw  him  standing  there,  shyness  took  pos- 
session of  her  and  she  went  toward  him  with  steps  that 
hesitated  a  little. 

He  came  to  meet  her  and  took  her  hands.  "You  look 
as  if  you  were  going  to  run  away,"  he  said,  and  his  eyes 
smiled  at  her.  "No  more  running  away  now,  if  you 
please." 

He  lifted  her  hand  and  kissed  her  ringers ;  then  put  his 
arm  around  her  and  drew  her  to  him.  When  he  kissed 
her  panic  seized  her  and  she  pushed  him  away. 

"But  why?"  he  asked.  "Doesn't  one  kiss  one's  be- 
loved?" 

"But  I'm  not  used  to  you  yet — or  to  kissing." 

He  laughed.  "Well — of  course  not.  But  very  soon 
you'll  get  used  to  me — and  to  kissing.  For  you're  going 
to  marry  me  now  and  go  away  with  me,  aren't  you?" 

"Now?"    She  gave  a  little  gasp. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  seriously,  "what  else  is  there  for 
us  to  do?    I'll  grant  you,  if  your  father  had  consented 


Isabel  Stirling  215 

to  our  engagement  I'd  have  let  you  take  your  own  time 
and  have  gone  away  and  come  back  to  get  you  whenever 
you  said  I  might.  But  as  it  is — he's  never  going  to  con- 
sent— we've  neither  of  us  any  illusions  about  that.  We 
couldn't  even  write  to  each  other  openly — and  we  neither 
of  us  like  underhand  ways.  No,  believe  me,  darling,  the 
short  way  is  the  best.  And  I  don't  get  another  leave  for 
a  year." 

A  year !  Why,  a  year  was  impossible !  Her  face  grew 
graver,  more  resolute. 

"And  you  do  love  me,"  he  said,  not  as  a  question,  but 
as  stating  a  fact. 

Her  eyes  met  his  frankly  and  seriously.  "Yes,  I  love 
you,"  she  answered.  "I  wasn't  sure  until  you  asked  me 
there,  before  Father,  to  marry  you,  but  then  I  knew." 

"Bless  your  father!  And  you  will  consent  to  marry 
me  now,  before  I  have  to  go?" 

"Yes.  I  think  you  are  right.  But  there  are  things 
to  do.  You'll  tell  your  father  and  Cassie,  won't  you? 
And  I — I  think  I  must  tell  Uncle  Brenton." 

They  sat  down  under  a  tree  and  talked  of  their  plans 
— and  of  themselves,  until  at  last  Isabel  started  up  in 
dismay. 

"It's  late!"  she  exclaimed.  "Father  will  be  coming 
home.  And  Lydia's  visitor  will  be  gone.  There  will  be 
dreadful  times  and  I  may  get  locked  up  in  my  room  next 
time." 

At  the  edge  of  the  wood  she  left  him,  to  go  home  alone. 
She  was  fortunate  enough  to  get  to  the  door  unseen  and 
slipped  softly  in,  thankful  to  hear  voices  from  the  parlor, 
showing  that  Lydia  was  still  occupied.  She  glided 
through  the  dim  hallway  and  just  as  she  reached  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  the  parlor  door  opened.  The  doorway 
framed  a  picture  of  the  professor  and  Lydia  standing 
side  by  side,  illuminated  by  the  rays  of  the  western  sun, 
streaming  on  them  from  behind.  Lifting  Lydia's  hand 
with  a  gallant  gesture,  the  professor  kissed  it. 

Isabel  never  could  understand  why  she  did  not  flee  up- 
stairs quietly,  why  instead  she  should  have  stood  trans- 


216  Isabel  Stirling 

fixed ;  why,  above  all,  she  should  have  been  guilty  of  that 
hysterical  giggle.  At  its  sound,  Professor  Hyde  turned 
sharply  and  Lydia  retreated  into  the  room.  Isabel  did 
not  wait  to  see  more.  She  flew  up  the  stairs  and  to  her 
own  room.  She  did  not  want  to  laugh,  never  had  wanted 
to,  in  fact.  She  was  horribly  shocked  and  at  first  had 
a  grotesque  idea  that  she  and  Dick  had  been  intentionally 
parodied.  Instantly  realizing  the  impossibility  of  that, 
she  was  almost  equally  shocked  by  the  impropriety  of 
Lydia,  her  father's  wife,  permitting  such  a  familiarity. 
In  her  provincial  eyes  a  kiss  of  the  hand  had  the  dimen- 
sion of  a  very  grave  indiscretion;  that  is,  for  a  married 
woman. 

She  walked  up  and  down  her  room  and,  at  every  turn, 
her  indignation  increased.  More  than  anything  else  she 
resented  the  spoiling*  by  this  nauseating  after-taste,  of 
her  own  wonderful  hour.  How  disgusting  were  the  phi- 
lander ings  of  these  two  elderly  married  people — how 
unworthy  a  parody  of  her  own  unique  experience!  She 
wondered  how  she  could  ever  meet  Lydia  again;  and 
then  began  to  wonder  how  Lydia  was  going  to  meet  her. 

The  question  was  answered  immediately.  If  Lydia 
had  exercised  her  usual  judgment  she  would  have  de- 
ferred the  meeting  and,  in  the  end,  would  have  ignored 
the  scene.  But  she,  no  less  than  Isabel,  artlessly  over- 
estimated the  significance  of  a  kiss  of  the  hand.  She  had 
for  some  time  been  cherishing  an  estimation  of  her  ad- 
venture in  romantic  friendship  which  would  greatly  have 
surprised  the  professor,  who  had  kissed  other  hands  and 
thought  nothing  of  it.  Lydia  was  blazing  with  anger. 
Isabel's  laugh  was  never  to  be  forgiven.  At  the  same 
time,  Lydia  was  frightened ;  and  amid  the  emotions  which 
agitated  her,  she  lost  sight  of  her  usual  discretion.  The 
professor  gone,  she  lost  little  time  in  coming  to  Isabel. 

"It  seems,  then,  that  I  couldn't  trust  you,"  she  began. 
"Because  I  thought  you  could  be  trusted  and  left  you  for 
a  little  while,  you  took  advantage  of  my  confidence  and 
left  the  house.  No  wonder  your  father  feels  that  you 
must  be  watched." 


Isabel  Stirling  217 

Isabel,  having  no  answer  ready,  simply  looked  at  her 
in  silence.  Unconsciously  to  herself,  there  was  a  certain 
scornful  appraisal  in  her  expression  which  infuriated  the 
older  woman. 

"If  I  should  refuse  to  guard  you,"  said  Lydia.  "If  I 
should  just  hand  you  over  to  your  father " 

The  injustice  of  the  attack  stung  Isabel.  "You  didn't 
care  what  I  did,"  she  said.  "You  wanted  me  out  of  the 
way.  You  always  want  me  out  of  the  way  on  Saturday 
afternoon." 

Lydia  trembled  with  anger,  but  kept  control  of  her 
vocabulary.  "Your  mind  is  evil,"  she  said.  "You  im- 
agine that  everyone  is  like  yourself  and  your  lover.  He 
was  not  brought  up  as  a  gentleman,  and  it  is  impossible 
for  you  to  understand  the  courtly  manners  of  a  noble 
gentleman.  And  so  you  insult  him  and  me  with  your 
vulgar  mirth  and  your  low-minded  suspicions.  You 
ought  to  be  overwhelmed  with  shame." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  laugh,"  said  Isabel.  "I  don't  know 
why  I  did  it.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  suspicions. 
I  only  just  think  it  isn't  very  nice  for  a  married  woman 
to  do  like  that.  And  I  don't  think  I  am  treating  Father 
worse  than  you  are.    He — he  wouldn't  like  it." 

Lydia  drew  herself  up.  It  was  a  disadvantage  that  in 
such  a  situation  she  should  lack  so  much  of  Isabel's 
height.  "My  dear  husband  can  never  accuse  me  of  vio- 
lating the  confidence  which  he  reposes  in  me,"  she  said, 
with  what  she  felt  was  a  superb  air.  Then  she  reflected 
for  an  instant.  "This  once,  I  shall  not  tell  him  about 
your  escapade,"  she  added,  with  an  appearance  of  mag- 
nanimity. 

Isabel  was  silent  and  her  stepmother  regarded  her 
somewhat  anxiously.  "You  ought  to  be  very  grateful  to 
me,"  she  added  severely. 

That  her  offer  to  conceal  Isabel's  transgression  brought 
no  response  and  left  her  still  uncertain  as  to  what  the 
girl  might  say  or  do,  increased  Lydia's  anger.  It  would 
have  burned  even  more  fiercely  if  she  had  suspected  that 
the  professor's  wounded  vanity  would  lead  him  to  break 


218  Isabel  Stirling 

off  his  visits  to  her.  The  one  thing  he  could  not  bear 
was  ridicule;  and  what  more  galling  to  the  elderly  gal- 
lant than  the  ridicule  of  the  young !  In  any  case,  he  was 
growing  a  little  weary  of  the  intimacy,  stimulating  to 
constancy  as  had  been  Lydia' s  flattery  and  the  tea-table 
with  its  dainties  which  she  had  instituted  for  his  benefit. 
She  never  knew  how  much  cause  for  self-gratulation  she 
had  that  she  took  the  initiative  and  could  henceforth 
believe  that  the  visits  ceased  because  she  willed  them  to 
do  so.  She  resolved  to  write  him  a  note  saying  that  she 
would  be  out  of  town  on  the  following  Saturday  and  to 
go  at  once  to  make  her  sister  a  visit. 

Unavoidably  Sunday  interposed  a  delay;  but,  while 
attending  to  all  the  usual  religious  exercises  of  the  day, 
she  had  time  to  make  her  preparations  and  to  broach  her 
plan  to  her  husband,  who  found  it  most  inopportune. 

"It  is  very  inconvenient  for  me  to  have  you  away  just 
now,"  he  said. 

"But  Laura  says  she  needs  me  extremely  just  now," 
fibbed  Lydia.  "She  has  been  ill  and  Letty  is  going  to 
be  married.  She  surely  has  some  claim  on  me,  when  one 
thinks  how  long  I  made  my  home  with  her." 

She  omitted  to  remember  that,  while  these  things  were 
true,  Mrs.  Marvin  had  not  asked  for  her  presence.  "You 
can't  say,"  she  added,  "that  I  have  left  you  often." 

"But  I  need  you  for  Isabel.  She  must  be  kept  under 
surveillance  for  the  present,  and  you  know  very  well  that 
I  cannot  be  on  hand  all  the  time." 

"Yes,"  said  Lydia  with  an  air  of  melancholy,  "I  put 
off  speaking  about  Laura  and  her  affairs,  hoping  that  I 
could  help  you  with  Isabel.  In  that  case  it  would  have 
been  my  duty  to  stay.  But  really,  William,  it  is  impos- 
sible for  me  to  control  her.  She  needs  a  stronger  hand 
than  mine.  After  all,  she  is  your  own  child,  and  I 
am  only  too  often  reminded  that  I  am  merely  a  step- 
mother." 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  is  disrespectful  to  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  she  doesn't  often  say  anything.  There  are 
other  ways  of  making  me  feel  it.  Indeed,  William,  I  have 


Isabel  Stirling  219 

done  my  best  to  win  your  child,  but  it  is  useless.  I'm 
afraid  her  misunderstanding  of  me  is  wilful.  And  she 
is  not  always  truthful.  But  perhaps  if  I  leave  you  to- 
gether— "  Lydia  quite  felt  that  she  was  an  unappre- 
ciated stepmother. 

"What  has  she  done  since  I  asked  you  to  watch  her?" 
asked  William. 

"She  escaped  from  me,"  answered  Lydia,  with  an  air 
of  reluctance. 

"She  went  out?    To  meet  that  young  man?" 

His  portentous  voice  and  frown  reminded  Lydia  that 
she  was  treading  a  dangerous  path.  She  wanted  to  make 
her  own  departure  feasible,  she  wanted  to  discredit  Isa- 
bel, but  she  did  not  want  to  have  the  girl  irritated  into 
retaliation. 

"I  don't  know  that  she  saw  him  at  all,"  she  said,  which 
was  technically  true.  "I  dare  say  she  only  took  a  little 
walk.  You  might  as  well  let  it  pass,  since  it  is  over  and 
done  with.  I  only  mean  to  show  you  that  I  can't  manage 
her.  You  will  look  out  for  her  best.  I  have  always 
noticed  that  she  pays  much  more  attention  to  your  com- 
mands than  to  mine." 

She  made  it  quite  clear  to  him  that  she  intended  to  go. 
"I  have  never,"  she  said,  "set  up  the  claims  of  my  own 
people.  I  must  do  it  now.  Of  course  I  want  your  con- 
sent, William.    I  couldn't  go  without." 

In  the  end,  he  gave  it,  helplessly  feeling  that  he  could 
not  refuse,  since  her  sister  needed  her. 

Lydia,  however,  did  not  know  how  to  leave  well  enough 
alone.  Before  leaving  by  her  early  train  the  next  morn- 
ing, she  visited  Isabel  in  her  room.  "Now  that  I  am 
going  away,"  she  said,  "you  and  I  must  let  bygones  be 
bygones.  I  have  told  your  dear  father  that  I  hoped  he 
and  you  would  learn  to  understand  each  other  while  I 
am  away.  And  of  course,  dear  Isabel,  you  will  not  say 
anything  unkind  about  me — I  have  always  been  kind  to 
you.  You  won't  say  anything  that  would  make  your  dear 
father  and  me  unhappy?" 


220  Isabel  Stirling 

Isabel  looked  her  up  and  down.  "You  mean  you 
don't  want  me  to  tell  him  about  the  Saturday  after- 
noons?" 

Lydia  quivered  under  her  youthful  scorn.  "You  are 
— uncouth!"  She  knew  it  wasn't  the  word  she  wanted, 
but  for  once  language  failed  her.  ~She  waited  a  moment, 
but  Isabel  stood  quite  still,  looking  at  her.  "Very  well, 
then,"  she  said  at  last,  "since  you  put  it  that  way,  I  do 
want  you  to  promise  not  to  make  trouble.  You  could 
put  a  perfectly  harmless  trifle  in  such  a  way  as  to  be 
very  untrue,  so  I  want  you  to  say  nothing  about  it.  You 
promise  me?" 

Isabel,  who  felt  that  she  would  rather  die  than  men- 
tion the  thing  to  her  father  or  to  anyone  else,  was  out- 
raged at  being  asked  to  promise.  She  stood  silent  and 
unmoved. 

"You  won't  promise  me?"  said  Lydia. 

"No,  I  won't  promise  anything,"  said  Isabel,  turning 
away. 

Lydia  went  down  to  breakfast  feeling  horribly  per- 
turbed. William,  as  in  duty  bound,  went  with  her  to  the 
train  and,  in  the  carriage,  she  shot  her  last  arrow  to  dis- 
credit her  stepdaughter. 

"There's  one  thing  I  have  it  on  my  conscience  to  tell 
you,"  she  said.  "I  think  you  ought  to  look  after  Isabel's 
expenditures.  She  has  been  spending  much  more  money 
than  she  could  possibly  have  in  her  possession  and  she 
may  have  made  debts.  That  would  be  very  unpleasant 
for  you." 

"She  has  controlled  her  income  since  she  was  twenty- 
one,"  he  replied.  "I  don't  doubt  she  has  been  extrava- 
gant, but  I  see  no  reason  why  she  should  be  in  debt." 

Lydia's  pale  eyes  gleamed  with  spite.  "She  couldn't 
have  bought  what  she  has  out  of  her  income.  Look  at 
the  furs  she  got  last  winter,  and  her  watch  and  chain. 
I  know  what  such  things  cost  better  than  you  do.  The 
watch  and  chain  must  have  been  over  a  hundred  dollars 
and  the  furs  nearly  as  much.  She  gave  a  good  many 
Christmas  presents  and  she  got  a  great  many  clothes  in 


Isabel  Stirling  221 

the  spring.  She  spends  money  all  the  time.  It  is  a  thing 
that  ought  to  be  looked  into." 

"I  will  look  into  it,"  said  William  briefly. 

"And  you  must  remember,"  was  Lydia's  parting  shot, 
"that  she  is  not  altogether  truthful." 


XLIII 

William  Stirling  was  not  one  to  defer  a  duty ;  and  in 
the  present  instance  he  was  impelled  by  an  indignation 
which  he  considered  altogether  righteous.  As  Lydia's 
train  moved  out  of  the  station  he  snapped  his  watch  shut 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket ;  then,  instead  of  walking  home, 
got  into  the  hack  which  had  brought  them  down  and  told 
the  man  to  hurry.  He  had  promised  to  go,  that  day,  to 
visit  a  former  parishioner  who  was  at  present  living  in 
a  village  some  twenty  miles  away  and  who  now,  on  a 
sickbed,  fancied  that  his  former  pastor  might  be  of  some 
comfort  to  him.  The  local  train  which  would  take  him 
there  was  due  to  leave  in  a  little  over  an  hour.  On  the 
way  up  the  hill  he  reflected  that  some  arrangement  must 
be  made  to  guard  Isabel  during  the  day,  and  wondered 
whether  he  had  better  take  her  with  him,  which  he  did 
not  at  all  want  to  do. 

Jumping  from  the  carriage  and  telling  the  man  to  wait, 
he  strode  into  the  house  and,  not  finding  Isabel  there, 
opened  the  kitchen  door  and  sent  Bridget,  the  cook,  in 
search  of  her.  Ellen  had  already  set  forth  on  the  vaca- 
tion which  Lydia  had  thriftily  arranged  for  her  to  take 
during  her  own  absence.  He  had  a  justified  confidence 
that  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  Isabel  would  still  be 
at  home,  whatever  might  be  her  intentions  for  the  rest 
of  the  day;  intentions  which  he  proposed  to  thwart. 

She  came  in  from  the  garden  and  obeyed  his  summons 
with  her  usual  reluctance.  Never  had  a  visit  to  his  study 
been  anything  but  unpleasant,  except  perhaps  on  the  occa- 
sion when  he  had  given  her  the  freedom  to  spend  her 
money  in  her  own  way.  He  was  sitting  in  his  writing 
chair,  which  he  turned  toward  her  as  she  came  in.  He 
did  not  tell  her  to  sit  down  and  she  stood  before  him, 
tall  and  straight.    He  came  to  the  point  abruptly. 


Isabel  Stirling  223 

"You  went  out  yesterday  without  your  mother's  knowl- 
edge," he  said.    "Where  did  you  go?" 

"I  went  for  a  walk." 

"Alone?" 

She  was  silent. 

He  frowned.  "Don't  try  to  deceive  me.  Were  you 
alone?" 

Her  head  went  a  little  higher.  "I  don't  intend  to  de- 
ceive you.  I  went  to  meet  Dick.  You  won't  let  him 
come  here." 

"I  forbade  you  to  see  him.  I  shall  take  measures  to 
enforce  obedience." 

She  made  no  reply,  looking  past  him,  out  of  the  win- 
dow. 

"Do  you  hear  me?    Look  at  me!" 

She  turned  her  eyes  to  meet  his.  His  face  was  even 
more  grimly  determined  than  she  had  ever  seen  it.  Her 
heart  beat  fast,  but  she  answered  intrepidly:  "Yes, 
Father.     But  I  have  promised  to  marry  Dick." 

His  ringers  closed  on  a  heavy  paper  knife  which  was 
lying  on  the  desk  beside  him.  Then  slowly  he  let  it  go. 
"You  will  not  marry  him,"  he  said  with  finality. 

For  a  moment  he  said  no  more.  He  held  himself 
rigidly,  looking  her  in  the  eyes.  She  longed  to  escape, 
but  while  his  eyes  held  her  she  could  not  go. 

"You  have  been  spending  money  extravagantly,"  he 
said. 

This  was  totally  unexpected.  The  color  flooded  her 
face  and  he  took  it  as  a  sign  of  guilt. 

"Have  you  gone  in  debt?"  he  asked. 

"No!"  she  said  eagerly. 

"Have  you  spent  more  than  the  income  which  your 
aunt  left  you?" 

Oh,  why  did  he  put  it  in  that  way?  If  he  had  merely 
asked  if  she  had  spent  more  than  her  income  she  could 
so  readily  have  said  that  she  had  not,  but  the  form  of 
his  question  made  a  truthful  denial  impossible.  Had  he 
found  out  anything?  She  turned  from  red  to  white  and 
then  to  red  again.    Her  hesitation  and  her  changing  color 


224  Isabel  Stirling 

betrayed  her.  With  her  father's  anger  was  mingled  an 
overpowering  disgust.    He  regarded  her  with  repugnance. 

"Where  did  you  get  the  money  ?"  he  asked. 

She  turned  pale  again  and  her  knees  trembled  so  that 
she  put  her  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair  to  steady  herself. 
Still  she  did  not  answer.  Dr.  Brenton  had  said  that  her 
father  must  never  know,  and  well  she  knew  that  for 
herself. 

"You  shall  tell  me!"  he  said.  "Who  has  been  giving 
you  money?     If  I  find  that  you  have  taken  it " 

"Nobody  gave  it  to  me.  It's  my  own  money,"  she 
interrupted  hastily.  She  felt  that  she  was  being  hard 
pushed. 

"If  John  Brenton  has  been  giving  you  your  capital  he 
is  liable  to  prosecution." 

"But  he  hasn't." 

"Has  he  made  you  a  present  of  money?" 

"No."  She  took  a  step  back  and  half  turned,  as  if 
to  go. 

William  Stirling  got  up,  walked  to  the  door,  locked  it, 
put  the  key  in  his  pocket  and  returning,  stood  rigidly 
before  her.  "Before  you  leave  this  room,"  he  said,  "you 
will  tell  me  where  you  got  the  money  you  have  been 
spending." 

"I  am  not  going  to  tell."  Her  voice  was  scarcely 
audible. 

"You  will  tell." 

Brave  as  she  was,  she  quailed  and  was  conquered.  Her 
eyes  dropped  before  his.  There  was  silence,  while  he 
stood  waiting.  Then:  "I  earned  the  money,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  tone. 

"Earned  it?    You  expect  me  to  believe  you?" 

The  taunt  in  his  voice  was  unbearable.  Under  its 
sting  she  regained  courage,  but  in  her  anger  cast  away 
all  thought  of  consequences.  "I  wrote  a  book,"  she  said, 
"and  got  money  for  it." 

He  looked  at  her  with  absolute  unbelief.  "Lies  are 
useless." 

"I  have  never  told  you  a  lie.    Not  even  when  it  would 


Isabel  Stirling  225 

have  made  things  easier.  I  wrote  a  book — and  got  it 
published — and  got  money  for  it." 

Her  father's  face  appalled  her.  Never  even  in  her 
childhood  had  she  been  more  afraid  of  him  than  she  was 
now.  She  trembled  lest  he  take  a  step  toward  her.  But 
he  held  himself  still. 

"I  think  you  are  mad,"  he  said.  "You  have  harbored 
devils  so  long  that  they  have  made  you  mad.  You  have 
denied  your  God  until  He  will  have  no  more  of  you.  I 
have  done  my  best  and  it  has  been  of  no  avail !" 

Something  deep  down  in  Isabel  rose  up  and  conquered 
fright.  She  faced  him  without  a  tremor.  "Your  best 
was  not  well  done,"  she  said.  "You  never  loved  me,  you 
were  never  kind  to  me,  and  you  made  me  feel  that  God 
was  just  like  you.  You — and  other  people — always  said 
He  was  a  father — and  then  you  showed  me  that  a  father 
did  not  love  his  child — did  not  care  for  her  really,  only 
cared  to  make  her  do  his  way.  Did  you  expect  me  to 
love  a  God  like  that?  It  never  has  seemed  to  me  that 
you  yourself  loved  Him,  or  anyone  else." 

She  stopped,  astonished  at  herself.  As  her  father  came 
toward  her,  terror  revived.  He  did  not  touch  her,  nor 
did  he  speak  a  word.  He  unlocked  the  door,  opened  it, 
and  motioned  her  to  leave  the  room  in  front  of  him. 
Again  he  motioned  her  toward  the  stairs  and  followed 
her  up.  The  sense  of  being  driven  was  overwhelming  in 
its  humiliation.  She  went  of  her  own  accord  to  her  room, 
horribly  apprehensive  lest  he  should  follow  her  inside. 

He  only  came  in  far  enough  to  take  the  key  out  of  the 
lock.  Then  he  closed  the  door  and  locked  it  from  the 
outside,  taking  the  key  out  after  he  had  done  so.  Di- 
rectly after  that  she  heard  him  go  downstairs.  A  moment 
later  the  front  door  opened  and  closed  again  and  she 
heard  him  drive  away. 


XLIV 

For  some  moments  Isabel  stood  motionless.  It  had  been 
a  tremendous  relief  to  have  her  father  shut  the  door  be- 
tween them.  If  he  had  laid  his  hand  on  her  she  felt  that 
she  could  hardly  have  lived  through  the  humiliation  and 
she  had  feared  it,  seeing  his  anger  and  remembering  her 
childhood. 

With  the  shutting  of  the  house-door  the  tension  re- 
laxed. She  glanced  quickly  at  the  door  of  the  closet. 
Yes,  the  key  was  still  in  it,  and  by  a  good  chance  that  key 
also  fitted  the  other  lock.  She  could  get  out  whenever 
she  chose  and  her  father  would  be  away  all  day.  Her 
knees  were  shaking  and  she  dropped  into  the  little  old 
rocking  chair  by  the  window.  She  was  glad  to  take  time 
to  think. 

Her  father  would  return  in  the  evening  and  then  he 
would  ask  more  questions.  He  didn't  believe  now  about 
the  book,  but  he  would  believe  in  the  end.  "I  must  go 
away  now,"  she  said  to  herself.     "It  is  the  only  thing." 

There  was  but  one  place  to  go.  Mrs.  Gifford  was  with 
Jessie,  but  even  if  she  had  been  at  home,  Dr.  Brenton  was 
the  one  person.  He  would  understand.  And  she  could 
send  word  to  Dick  to  come  to  her  there. 

She  listened  intently.  The  house  was  very  quiet. 
Looking  out  of  the  window,  she  saw  Bridget,  in  her  best 
clothes,  walk  away,  down  the  path  from  the  kitchen,  treat- 
ing herself  to  an  unsanctioned  outing  in  the  absence  of 
the  master  and  mistress.  It  was  a  good  thing.  Now  she 
would  have  the  house  to  herself. 

She  opened  her  door  and,  just  to  make  sure,  tiptoed 
into  all  the  rooms  on  that  floor;  then  downstairs  and 
tremblingly  through  the  lower  rooms.  At  the  door  of 
Lydia's  sitting-room  she  paused.     In  this  moment  of 

226 


Isabel  Stirling  227 

departure,  memories  of  her  childhood  came  back  to  her 
— bitter  memories.  She  saw  the  room  as  it  had  been — 
dismantled,  gloomy ;  shut  off  from  all  the  cheerful  world, 
with  only  the  one  door  leading  into  her  father's  study. 
She  remembered  with  a  sick  feeling  how  she  had  been 
led  through  the  study  to  humiliating  punishments  and 
how,  each  time,  she  had  hated  her  father  with  a  fresh 
hatred — a  passionate,  futile  hatred. 

Then  came  back  to  her  the  night  of  awe  and  mystery 
and  terror  when  she — she  alone  of  all  the  house,  had  kept 
vigil  near  the  mother  she  had  never  known  and  for  whose 
sake  her  father  had  never  forgiven  her  existence ;  yet  for 
whose  sake  he  could  not  keep  watch  for  one  night.  He 
was  already  going  to  marry  Lydia!  A  sob  caught  her 
by  the  throat.   .    .    . 

There  was  no  time  to  lose.  She  went  back  to  her  room 
and  put  some  things  into  a  traveling  bag;  then  dragged 
her  empty  trunk  from  the  garret  and  packed  it. 

She  took  the  little  portrait  of  her  mother  down  from 
the  wall  of  her  room,  wrapped  it  carefully  in  soft  things 
and  put  it  into  the  trunk.  Then  she  went  again  into  the 
attic  and,  opening  the  little  old  trunk  which  held  her 
mother's  things,  gathered  them  together,  and  made  room 
for  them  in  her  own.  Their  bulk  was  not  great,  but 
she  had  to  leave  out  some  of  her  own  things.  She 
locked  and  strapped  the  trunk  and  left  it  standing  in  her 
room.  She  knew  that  although  her  father  might  have 
used  force  to  detain  herself,  he  would  let  her  property 
go.  Just  before  noon  she  left  the  house,  carrying  her 
handbag. 

At  Dr.  Brenton's  house  welcome  and  sympathy  greeted 
her.  "Of  course  you  did  just  the  right  thing  when  you 
came  to  me,"  the  doctor  assured  her.  "It's  sheer  good 
luck,"  he  added,  "that  your  father  didn't  believe  you 
about  the  book — but  when  Lydia  gets  hold  of  it — "  he 
shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  feel  sure  he'll  tell  her,"  replied  Isabel.  "He 
doesn't  always  tell  her  things." 

Dr.  Brenton  did  not  answer.     He  was  wrinkling  his 


228  Isabel  Stirling 

brow  and  reflecting  anxiously.  As  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, he  had  no  objection  to  standing  up  to  William 
Stirling  and  telling  him  a  home  truth  or  two,  but  as  long 
as  the  father  and  daughter  were  in  different  houses  in 
the  same  town  the  girl's  position  could  not  but  be  a  try- 
ing one.  .  .  .  Yes,  her  own  plan  was  best,  hasty  as  it 
seemed. 

"And  about  Dick,"  Isabel  was  saying,  "Father  is  all 
wrong." 

"Yes — about  Dick."  The  doctor  took  her  hand,  as  she 
sat  beside  him,  and  patted  it.  "You  haven't  known  him 
very  long — but  I  have.  He's  a  fine  fellow  and  it's  all 
right  if  you  love  each  other  enough.  You  love  him,  my 
dear?  It  isn't  just  because  that  father  of  yours  won't 
let  you  have  him?" 

"Yes,"  said  Isabel  gravely.     "I  love  him." 

Looking  into  her  eyes  he  saw  something  which  had 
never  been  there  before.     Isabel  was  a  child  no  longer. 

"Won't  you  send  for  him  now — right  away?"  she 
asked. 

"Surely  I'll  send.    He's  the  person  to  send  for." 


XLV 

"We'll  be  married  to-day,"  said  Dick.  He  spoke  with 
decision,  the  blood  mounting  to  his  brow,  his  eyes 
shining. 

It  was  what  she  had  expected,  what  she  felt  to  be  best, 
but  a  quiver  went  through  her.  They  were  standing 
before  the  fireplace  in  the  doctor's  parlor,  gazing  straight 
into  each  other's  eyes,  both  her  hands  in  his.  For  a 
moment  now  she  looked  away  from  him  and  out  of  the 
open  window.  It  was  a  day  of  intense  stillness.  Be- 
tween motionless  leafy  branches  showed  a  bit  of  intensely 
blue  sky.  Then  a  little  branch  stirred  as  a  bird  alighted 
on  it.  The  bird  stopped  but  an  instant  before  it  rose 
against  the  blue.  As  her  eyes  followed  it  her  spirit,  too, 
rose.    She  turned  again  to  her  lover. 

"Yes,  Dick,"  she  said.  In  her  eyes  was  the  new  look 
and  in  her  voice  the  new  tone  which  revealed  the  unfold- 
ing of  her  soul.  .   .  . 

Through  all  the  hurry  which  followed,  Isabel  never 
lost  that  impression  of  stillness.  Yet  hurry  there  must 
be,  though  not  for  her.  Dr.  Stirling  was  to  return  at 
six  o'clock  and  Dr.  Brenton,  no  less  than  Dick,  was 
anxious  to  get  the  affair  finished  before  that.  There 
was  much  to  do.  Licenses  were  not  necessary  in  those 
days,  but  a  parson  must  be  secured.  Isabel's  trunk  must 
be  retrieved,  Dick  must  tell  his  father  and  prepare  for 
a  journey.  While  Norah,  all  excitement  when  she  was 
told  what  was  going  forward,  flew  to  work  to  prepare 
such  a  wedding  feast  as  the  time  allowed. 

Dick  found  his  father  in  the  library,  busy  over  ac- 
counts.   Peter  Maiden  took  the  news  philosophically. 

"It  seems  the  only  way,"  he  said,  "if  you  mean  to  make 
sure  of  your  girl."    Then  he  puffed  hard  for  a  moment 

229 


230  Isabel  Stirling 

at  his  cigar  and  reached  out  his  hand  for  his  ever-ready 
cheque-book.    "You'll  want  money/ '  he  said. 

"One  never  has  to  ask  you,"  said  Dick. 

"I've  known  the  want  of  it,"  replied  his  father,  begin- 
ning to  write.    "How  much  do  you  need?" 

"If  you  could  let  me  have  five  hundred " 

"Unpractical  young  fool,"  growled  Peter  Maiden. 

He  finished  the  cheque  and  shoved  it  across  the  table. 
It  was  for  five  thousand  dollars. 

Cassie  was  as  excited  and  pleased  as  her  brother  could 
wish.  She  liked  the  romance  of  it,  liked  Isabel,  and 
loved  Dick  so  dearly  that  she  would  have  appeared  de- 
lighted even  if  she  had  not  been  so.  She  gratified  him 
and  herself  by  going  at  once  to  see  Isabel  and  give  her 
a  sisterly  welcome  and  then  hurried  back  to  look  after 
his  clothes  and  pack  his  trunk. 

At  four  o'clock  the  little  company  was  gathered  in  Dr. 
Brenton's  parlor;  Dick  and  his  father  and  Cassie,  and 
the  Reverend  Dr.  Harrison,  rector  of  St.  James's.  The 
clergyman  was  feeling  a  trifle  dubious,  even  though,  after 
an  explanation  of  the  circumstances,  he  had  agreed  to 
perform  the  ceremony  for  the  son  of  a  most  valued 
parishioner.  As  for  the  others,  there  was  a  tense  atmos- 
phere surrounding  them,  a  feeling  of  flurry  and  an 
anxiety  to  get  the  affair  safely  over. 

Dr.  Brenton  went  upstairs  to  the  door  of  the  room 
where  Isabel,  with  scarcely  a  fleeting  regret  for  the  bridal 
paraphernalia  dear  to  the  heart  of  a  girl,  had  been  urged 
by  Norah  into  her  prettiest  white  summer  gown. 

"There'll  be  plenty  of  time  to  change,"  Norah  had 
said,  "and  ye  must  be  lookin'  yer  prettiest.  'Tis  the  one 
time  in  yer  life." 

And  then  Isabel  had  sent  Norah  away  and  had  waited 
alone.  She  was  still  very  calm,  not  thinking  at  all,  simply 
waiting,  in  a  strange  hush  of  heart  and  mind. 

"We  are  all  ready,"  said  Dr.  Brenton,  a  note  of  emo- 
tion in  his  voice.  He  kissed  her  on  the  forehead  as  she 
came  out  of  the  room,  and  then  turned  and  preceded  her 
down  the  stairs. 


Isabel  Stirling  231 

As  she  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  tall  and 
slender  and  lovely,  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  suddenly 
and  subtly  changed:  excitement  ceased,  her  own  calm 
enveloped  them  all.  And  they  all  felt — these  people  who 
had  known  her  from  her  childhood — as  if  they  had  never 
really  seen  her  before. 

She  gave  them  no  greeting,  but  stood  looking  at  them 
with  a  serious,  yet  softly  radiant  expression.  For  just 
an  instant  no  one  moved.  Then  Dick,  with  a  catch  of  the 
breath,  stepped  forward  and,  taking  her  by  the  hand,  led 
her  to  the  old  clergyman. 

She  went  through  the  service  reverently  and  without 
a  tremor.  Dr.  Brenton's  voice  failed  him  utterly  and  he 
could  only  give  her  away  in  dumb  show,  and  Peter  Mai- 
den felt  his  eyes  growing  moist  and  found  himself  saying 
under  his  breath:  "No  wonder — no  wonder!"  Cassie 
smiled  her  tears  away,  not  to  cast  a  gloom  on  the  wed- 
ding, and  Norah,  in  the  background,  wept  unrestrainedly. 
As  for  Dr.  Harrison,  who  had  large  experience  in  brides 
and  bride  psychology,  he  regarded  this  one  with  an  un- 
usual stirring  of  the  heart,  made  up  of  admiration  for 
her  beauty,  pity  for  her  trustful  ignorance,  and  indigna- 
tion at  her  incredibly  stupid  father. 

The  train  which  carried  the  newly  married  pair  away 
was  already  switching  back  and  forth  on  the  opposite 
hill  when  William  Stirling,  who  had  come  in  on  the  little 
railroad  known  as  the  Shoo  Fly,  drove  up  to  his  house. 
It  had  been  a  day  of  very  unusual  heart-searching  with 
him.  Fiercely  dogmatic  as  he  was,  he  yet  had  a  con- 
science which  was  capable  of  making  itself  heard,  a 
warped  and  twisted  conscience,  obedient  to  a  creed  of 
gloom,  yet  none  the  less,  a  monitor.  And  Isabel's  daring 
shaft  had  reached  the  secret  places.  At  first,  to  be  sure, 
^he  angrily  repelled  the  idea  that  he  did  not  love  the  God 
to  whose  service  he  had  devoted  his  life.  It  seemed  to 
him,  indeed,  almost  as  blasphemous  to  doubt  him  as  to 
doubt  God  Himself.  He  had,  from  time  to  time,  been 
accused  of  many  things,  but  never  of  that  disloyalty. 
It  rankled. 


232  Isabel  Stirling 

But  presently,  out  of  those  fundamentally  honest 
depths  of  his  soul  which  had  been  overgrown  by  dogma 
and  by  the  belief  in  his  own  infallibility — a  belief  nour- 
ished by  that  absence  of  contradiction  which,  in  a  min- 
ister's life  fosters  much  self-ignorance — out  of  those 
depths,  so  seldom  sounded,  rose  an  insistent,  teasing  ques- 
tion. Was  there  truth  in  her  accusation?  The  question, 
once  admitted,  opened  the  way  astonishingly  for  some 
measure  of  self-criticism.  Could  it  be,  that  by  his  own 
example  he  had  shown  himself  a  false  and  misleading 
interpreter  of  his  religion  ?  It  seemed  that  he  had  made 
the  idea  of  fatherhood  hateful  to  his  child.  There  had 
been  too  poignant  a  sincerity  in  Isabel's  accusation  for 
him  to  doubt  that.  He  remembered  that  he  had  loved 
his  own  father,  who  had  died  while  he  was  but  a  young 
lad.  His  mother  seemed  to  stand  before  him,  with  her 
trenchant  admonitions.  He  remembered  her  saying  once 
that  he  had  a  grudge  against  God.  Because  of  Bell.  He 
thought  of  Bell.  .   .   . 

The  William  Stirling  who  came  back  to  the  parsonage 
was  a  humbler  man  than  the  William  Stirling  who  had 
gone  away  in  the  morning.  He  had  made  some  good 
resolutions.  He  felt  compunction  at  the  thought  of  Isa- 
bel, locked  in  her  room  all  day ;  but  he  was  not  thinking 
at  all  about  Dick  Maiden.  That  matter  had  been  dis- 
missed. He  was  in  such  haste  to  get  home  that  he  did 
not  walk,  as  usual,  but  took  the  station  cab. 

As  he  came  toward  the  house  he  was  not  overpleased 
to  see  John  Brenton  standing  in  the  porch.  Any  out- 
sider was  an  interruption  now.  His  business  was  inside 
with  his  daughter  and  all  other  affairs  must  wait.  He 
tried  to  excuse  himself  after  a  hurried  greeting,  but  the 
visitor  vexatiously  held  his  ground. 

"What  I  have  to  say  is  of  importance,"  he  said. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  William  ungraciously,  his  hand 
on  the  doorknob. 

Dr.  Brenton  spoke  deliberately.  "Isabel  was  married 
two  hours  ago  to  Dick  Maiden.  The  ceremony  took  place 
in  my  house." 


Isabel  Stirling  233 

William  Stirling  stood  motionless,  his  hand  still  on  the 
doorknob.  The  silence  lasted  so  long  that  the  other  man 
was  moved  to  an  unreasonable  sympathy.  "If  the  man 
could  only  swear !"  he  said  to  himself. 

At  last  William's  hand  dropped  to  his  side,  the  ringers 
clenched.  "As  she  has  made  her  bed,  so  she  can  lie  on 
it !"  he  said  in  a  voice  shaking  with  rage.  "I  am  through 
with  her.  The  God  in  whom  she  does  not  believe  will 
curse  such  a  marriage.     I  leave  her  to  Him." 

John  Brenton's  wrath  burst  out  at  that.  "Your  curses 
may  come  back  to  you !"  he  said  hotly.  "It  would  be  no 
more  than  you  deserve.  Why  couldn't  you  treat  her 
better  when  you  had  her?" 

"Go !"  said  the  minister  furiously.  "Why  do  you  stay 
here?" 

John  Brenton  shook  his  head  and  compressed  his  lips. 
Why,  indeed,  stay  an  instant  with  this  madman  ?  As  he 
walked  away  he  reflected  that,  for  a  man  who  couldn't 
swear,  William  was  not  without  resources. 


PART   THREE 

XLVT 

Isabel  went  high-heartedly  and  somewhat  ignorantly 
into  the  adventure  of  marriage.  Afterward  she  had  re- 
volts. Dick  was  very  sweet  with  her  and  patient  over 
things  he  couldn't  quite  understand,  and  she  was  more 
in  love  with  him  than  ever  before,  but  as  to  marriage 

At  least,  until  you  had  been  married  ten  years  or  so 
and  got  used  to  it. 

And  yet  her  soul  went  out  to  him;  and  would  he  be 
so  adorably  her  lover  after  ten  years?  He  said,  of  course 
he  would — and  she  was  reassured. 

They  spent  a  short  honeymoon  in  New  York  and  she 
bought  her  pretty  things  and  loved  them.  Then  they 
took  a  week's  journey  across  the  continent  to  the  post 
where  Dick  was  stationed — and  little  she  realized  at  the 
time,  how  lucky  she  was  in  that  first  post.  For  it  was 
a  land  of  flowers  and  sunshine;  of  pleasant  people  and 
good  things  to  eat,  and  a  good  Chinese  cook. 

How  she  looked  back  all  her  life  to  that  first  station! 
From  reveille  to  taps,  from  guard  mounting  to  dress 
parade,  she  loved  it  all.  Her  heart  quickened  at  the 
sound  of  the  morning  gun,  awakening  her  from  sleep, 
and  her  eyes  grew  moist  when  the  evening  gun  boomed 
out  and  the  great  flag  was  lowered.  Not  since  the  war- 
time schooldays  had  she  felt  such  a  thrill  of  emotional 
patriotism. 

For  the  rest,  a  second  lieutenant's  quarters  are  small, 
but  Isabel  had  never  been  in  the  way  of  concerning  her- 
self much  about  her  domestic  surroundings.  At  home, 
Lydia  had  emphatically  possessed  the  house,  and  before 
that  it  was  boarding  school.     She  had  been  singularly 

234 


Isabel  Stirling  235 

detached  from  the  paraphernalia  of  domestic  life  and  had 
remained  singularly  ignorant  of  the  woman's  usual  lore 
of  housekeeping  and  sewing.  It  had  seemed  that  such 
things  as  chairs  and  tables,  sheets  and  towels,  cups  and 
saucers,  pots  and  pans,  simply  existed,  like  other  natural 
objects.  To  be  sure,  she  had  paused  for  a  moment  in 
the  choosing  of  clothes,  to  ask  Dick  whether  she  ought 
not  to  be  buying  things  for  housekeeping;  but  Dick  had 
answered  that  he  had  asked  Cassie  to  send  them  a  lot  of 
things,  and  she  gave  the  matter  no  further  thought.  So 
that  presently  she  surprised  herself  and  amused  Dick  by 
the  rapturous  affection  which  she  developed  for  her  house- 
hold belongings. 

"It's  more  fun !"  she  said,  as  she  arranged  their  quar- 
ters; and  "more  fun"  it  continued  to  be. 

She  sighed  happily  when  Dick  spoke  deprecatingly  of 
the  small  quarters.  "Oh,"  she  said,  "it  seems  boundless. 
There's  no  corner  where  we  are  not  free  to  be  ourselves !" 

Nevertheless,  the  thought  frequently  recurred  to  her 
that  this  intimate  life  would  be  unbearably  horrible  if  one 
had  by  mistake  married  anyone  but  the  one  and  only  man 
whom  one  could  love. 

As  to  housekeeping,  the  Chinaman  was  a  treasure  and 
one  really  didn't  need  to  know  how  to  do  things.  More- 
over, they  need  not  worry  overmuch  if  living  was  expen- 
sive. Dick's  father  had  made  him  a  handsome  wedding 
present  of  well  invested  securities,  and  her  own  little  in- 
come was  a  great  comfort.  Again  she  did  not  quite  know 
what  a  lucky  second  lieutenant's  wife  she  was.  Nor  did 
she  suspect  that  an  exaggerated  report  of  their  financial 
prosperity  had  been  spread  abroad  before  their  arrival. 
Lily  Hazleton  had  not  failed  to  expatiate  on  Peter  Mai- 
den's wealth. 

Lily  and  Frank  were,  naturally,  the  first  persons  to 
greet  them  on  their  arrival.  Full  of  endearments  was 
Lily,  and  all  eagerness  to  do  something  to  make  the  novice 
feel  at  home.  She  was  quite  the  young  army  woman 
now,  perfectly  au  fait  in  army  customs  and  talk.  It 
seemed  a  great  joke  to  Isabel  that  Lily  should  patronize 


236  Isabel  Stirling 

her,  but  after  all,  it  was  pleasant  to  see  someone  whom 
she  had  known  all  her  life. 

"You  just  come  and  ask  me  if  there  is  anything  you 
want  to  know,"  Lily  reiterated  as  she  was  taking  her 
leave.  She  laid  a  caressing  finger-tip  on  Isabel's  hand. 
It  was  her  new  substitute  for  a  kiss  and  there  was  no 
fault  to  find  with  it.  "Sweet  thing !"  she  said.  But  her 
parting  smile  was  for  Dick.  "Frank  is  so  happy  to  have 
you  back.    We  expect  to  see  a  lot  of  you." 

"Lily  is  just  the  same,"  said  Isabel  after  she  was  gone, 
"only  with  a  few  new  tricks." 

"She's  a  nice  little  woman,"  said  Dick.  He  was  very 
happy  to  see  his  friend  again,  and  Isabel  was  yet  to  learn 
that  of  his  friend's  wife  there  must  be  no  criticism.  Such 
was  his  idea  of  loyalty. 

Presently  began  the  entertainments  for  the  bride,  led 
off  by  Colonel  Raynor,  who  gave  a  lieutenants'  dinner, 
so  that  he  might  have  Isabel  at  his  right  hand.  The 
Colonel  was  a  bachelor,  and  while  some  of  the  women 
had  been  heard  to  say  that  it  was  a  pity  for  the  com- 
manding officer  not  to  have  a  wife  to  help  him  entertain, 
it  was  generally  felt  that  he  did  very  well  without  one. 
Also,  it  was  more  interesting  for  visiting  ladies.  Isabel's 
curiosity  about  him  had  been  quickened  by  Frank  Hazle- 
ton's  characterization  of  him.  She  had  asked  what  he 
was  like,  this  monarch  whom  they  must  all  obey. 

"Do  you  remember,"  Frank  had  replied,  "the  game 
where  1  love  my  love  with  an  A'?  Well,  let's  love  our 
Colonel  with  an  F.  He's  fair-minded  and  firm,  and  a 
good  fighter,  when  fighting  is  in  the  day's  work.  Also, 
he's  a  flirt  of  the  first  water.  And  he  loves  his  freedom 
with  such  a  very  large  F  that  his  flirting  is  innocuous 
to  him  and  hopeless  for  the  flirtee." 

"He's  so  old  for  that,"  objected  the  young  Isabel. 

"  'Age  cannot  wither,  nor  custom  stale'  the  infinite 
variety  of  his  flirtatiousness,"  replied  Frank.  "Besides, 
you  don't  know  the  army.    We  never  grow  old." 

It  was  a  gay  little  dinner  that  the  Colonel  gave  in  her 
honor.     Dressed   in  the  choicest  of  her  bridal  finery, 


Isabel  Stirling  237 

Isabel  was  delightful  to  look  at  and  a-quiver  with  excite- 
ment, but  found  herself,  to  her  chagrin,  with  nothing  to 
say.  The  army  post  had  its  own  small  talk,  and  she  had 
only  the  small  talk  of  Ptolemy.  If  only,  she  thought, 
they  would  have  let  her  alone,  she  could  have  listened 
comfortably  and  might  have  picked  up  a  lot  of  their 
patter.  She  was  not  aware  that  her  host  would  have  been 
quite  content  to  talk  to  her  and  have  her  say  nothing 
in  reply,  so  long  as  she  could  look  so  lovely.  She  did 
her  best  to  respond  to  him,  and  felt  like  a  dunce.  And 
when  he  turned  away  from  her  for  a  moment,  there  was 
Mr.  Betts,  on  her  other  side,  conscientiously  trying  to 
adjust  his  conversation  to  her.  It  occurred  to  her  to 
wonder  what  they  would  think  if  they  knew  she  had 
written  a  novel,  and  then  she  wondered  when,  by  the 
way,  she  was  going  to  tell  her  husband  about  that  novel. 

Farther  down,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  sat 
Lily.  It  seemed  to  her,  in  those  days,  that  Lily  was 
always  in  sight  and  always  supremely  at  ease,  with  her 
demure  smile  and  her  coy  drooping  of  pale  lashes  over 
her  shallow  light-blue  eyes.  Lily  did  not  seem  to  talk 
so  very  much,  but  she  listened,  and  the  men  were  talking 
to  her  endlessly. 

It  was  a  cavalry  party  and  they  all  talked  horse.  Isabel 
vowed  that  she  would  learn  to  talk  horse  too.  She  looked 
askance  at  her  glass  of  champagne  and  wondered  whether 
she  would  be  transgressing  any  rule  of  army  etiquette 
if  she  were  to  leave  it  untouched.  She  did  not  suspect 
that  Colonel  Raynor,  who  didn't  consider  Pommery  Sec 
a  lieutenant's  wine,  had,  on  this  occasion,  ordered  it  in 
her  honor.  She  had  tasted  champagne  during  that  honey- 
moon trip  to  New  York  and  liked  it,  but  was  afraid  of  it. 
Moreover,  so  insidiously  penetrating  had  been  the  code 
of  the  parsonage  that  she,  who  considered  herself  to  be 
at  odds  with  the  parsonage  rules,  thought  it  a  little  wicked 
to  drink  any  wine  at  all.  However,  she  would  rather  be 
wicked  than  make  a  mistake,  so  she  raised  her  glass  to 
her  lips  and  sipped.  As  she  set  it  down  she  met  the 
kindly  eyes  of  her  host.    It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was 


238  Isabel  Stirling 

trying  to  think  of  something  to  say  that  might  interest 
her.  A  flash  of  irritation  sent  the  blood  to  her  cheeks 
and  drove  away  her  shyness.    She  smiled  at  him  frankly. 

"I  am  absolutely  out  of  all  this,"  she  said,  "but  I'm 
going  to  get  into  it  as  fast  as  I  can.  IVe  never  been  on 
a  horse.  I  don't  know  anything  about  them — and  I  think 
I'm  a  little  afraid  of  dogs." 

Colonel  Raynor  laughed.  "That's  nothing,"  he  said. 
"It  will  soon  come  as  natural  to  you  as  to  the  rest  of 
us." 

"At  any  rate,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  to  get  over  my 
ignorance.  I'm  cultivating  the  acquaintance  of  Dick's 
dog,  and  we  are  going  to  buy  me  a  horse.  And  if  I'm 
observant  perhaps  I'll  soon  learn  which  is  the  near  and 
which  is  the  off  side  of  him." 

"You're  getting  on  famously,"  said  the  Colonel.  "And 
you'll  love  it  all  after  a  while." 

"I  love  it  now,"  she  replied,  her  eyes  shining. 

"Good!  And  you'll  like  the  dances.  You  didn't  get 
there  last  Saturday  night." 

Isabel's  eyes  drooped  and  the  color  flooded  her  face. 
Why  did  he  have  to  mention  dancing?  She  played  with 
her  fork  for  a  moment  and  then  faced  him  again.  "I 
don't  dance,"  she  said. 

Colonel  Raynor  could  not  remember  ever  having  met 
a  girl  who  didn't  dance,  or  a  married  woman  either,  un- 
less she  were  inordinately  stout.  "Oh,  but  you  must 
change  that,"  he  said  briskly.  "I  hope  you'll  give  me 
many  a  waltz.  And  your  husband  is  the  best  dancer 
at  the  post." 

She  shook  her  head.  "When  I  was  a  child  I  promised 
my  father  that  I  would  never  dance  in  my  life.  So  you 
see  I  can't." 

"Well — "  said  the  Colonel,  and  slipped  off  to  another 
subject.  How  could  he  commend  her  sense  of  honor  in 
keeping  a  promise  which  she  ought  not  to  have  made, 
when  her  breaking  it  was  only  a  matter  of  time  ? 

As  she  and  Dick  walked  home  together,  Isabel  won- 
dered again  when  she  was  going  to  tell  him  about  the 


Isabel  Stirling  239 

book.  She  hardly  ever  thought  of  it  nowadays,  since 
she  was  in  such  a  different  world  from  the  old  one.  It 
really  was  more  comfortable  to  keep  it  out  of  her  mind, 
for  the  better  she  knew  Dick,  the  more  certain  she  was 
that  no  one  in  the  world  would  more  thoroughly  dis- 
approve of  her  for  having  written  it. 


XLVII 

Dick  had  assumed,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  Isabel 
would  set  aside  the  old  promise  about  dancing,  and  was 
greatly  put  out  when  he  found  that  she  meant  to  keep 
her  word. 

"I  don't  see  any  sense  in  it,"  he  said.  "You  could  run 
away  and  marry  me  when  your  father  forbade  it,  and 
now  you  can't  do  a  much  smaller  thing." 

"But  I  never  promised  not  to  marry  you,"  said  Isabel. 

"But  no  human  being  could  blame  you  for  breaking 
a  promise  extorted  from  you  when  you  were  a  child. 
Come  now,  let  me  give  you  a  lesson.  You'll  learn  di- 
rectly. You're  built  just  right  for  dancing."  He  put 
his  arm  around  her  waist  and  began  to  whistle  a  waltz. 

She  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck.  "Oh,  Dick !"  she 
exclaimed.  "If  you  only  knew  how  hard  it  is!  I  long 
to  dance.  And  if  I  could  only  feel  right  about  it  myself, 
I  shouldn't  care  in  the  least  what  anyone  else  might  think 
about  it.  Dick,  don't  you  have  to  make  things  square 
with  yourself  before  you  can  do  them?" 

He  took  her  face  between  his  hands  'and  kissed  her. 
"Yes,  I  do,"  he  said.  "You're  a  brick,  Isabel.  But  as 
soon  as  you  feel  differently  about  it,  be  sure  and  let  me 
know.  Because,  you  see,  you  are  going  to  be  dreadfully 
out  of  it  in  an  army  post." 

"Let  you  know !"  she  cried.  "Why,  Dick,  if  I  could 
feel  differently  about  it  I  shouldn't  give  you  a  moment's 
peace.  You'd  have  to  teach  me,  morning,  noon  and 
night." 

"I'll  be  ready,  darling  girl.  And  now,  how  about  the 
hops?  Do  you  want  to  go  and  look  on,  next  Saturday, 
or  shall  we  stay  at  home?" 

"Oh,  I'll  go.     I  must  see  everything." 

She  went,  gaily  enough,  and  it  did  not  at  first  strike 

240 


Isabel  Stirling  241 

her  that  there  was  anything  strange  in  Dick's  sitting 
beside  her  without  dancing.  Many  men  came  and  stood 
for  a  few  moments,  or  sat  out  a  dance  with  her,  and  at 
those  times  Dick  walked  rather  aimlessly  away  and  talked 
to  people  here  and  there.  Lily  came  up  to  her  between 
two  dances. 

"How  perfectly  sweet  for  Dick  to  be  so  devoted,"  she 
said.  "But  it  does  seem  queer  not  to  have  him  dance. 
He  loves  it  so.  Are  you  going  to  make  him  give  it  up 
altogether?" 

"I  should  never  think  of  making  him  give  it  up,"  re- 
plied Isabel,  with  spirit.  "I  dare  say  he'll  be  dancing 
soon." 

"It's  so  funny  about  you,"  pursued  Lily.  "I  never 
expected  you  to  be  strict  about  such  things  after  you 
left  home." 

"No,"  said  Isabel.  "I  suppose  not."  She  looked  re- 
flectively at  Lily's  blonde  prettiness  and  recalled  a  remark 
of  Cassie's.  Cassie  had  said  that  Lily  was  "a  sleek  white 
cat." 

Just  then  Lily  was  taken  away  by  a  partner  and  Dick 
came  back  to  her.  For  the  moment  there  was  no  one 
near  them.  After  all,  cat  or  no  cat,  she  herself  was  being 
a  selfish  pig,  which  was  just  as  bad.  Poor  Dick  must 
be  having  a  dull  time  of  it;  and  besides,  no  one  should 
think  that  she  was  keeping  him  from  amusing  himself. 
She  told  him  that  she  wanted  him  to  go  and  dance. 

"What  for?"  he  answered  promptly.  "I'd  rather  not, 
if  you  don't  mind." 

She  smiled  up  at  him.  "You  look  so  nice,"  she  said. 
"Nicer  than  anyone  here.  And  everyone  says  you  dance 
better.     I  want  a  chance  to  admire  you." 

"I'm  going  to  sit  right  here  and  make  you  say  those 
things  some  more.  There's  no  diet  so  agrees  with  me 
as  flattery."  He  sat  for  a  moment,  glancing  about  the 
room.  "Pretty  to  look  at,  isn't  it  ?  And  by  George,  that 
music's  good." 

She  regarded  him  with  an  amused  smile.  He  was 
being  perfectly  heroic,  poor  dear.     She  rejoiced  in  his 


242  Isabel  Stirling 

willingness  to  sacrifice  himself  for  her,  but  given  the 
willingness,  she  could  not  think  of  actually  accepting  the 
sacrifice.  She  insisted  and  he  demurred,  until  Colonel 
Raynor  came  and  asked  to  sit  out  a  dance  with  her.  Then 
Dick  left  her  for  "just  one  dance." 

"It  really  is  fun  to  look  on,"  said  Isabel,  not  knowing 
that  her  wistful  eyes  betrayed  her. 

"You  are  a  wise  girl,"  said  Colonel  Raynor. 

Veteran  philanderer  though  he  was  under  suitable  cir- 
cumstances, Colonel  Raynor  never  trifled  with  married 
women.  For  some  of  them  he  had  a  genuine,  kindly 
friendliness,  as  far  as  possible  removed  from  flirting. 
A  good  friend  Isabel  always  found  him.  She  was  well 
content  as  she  sat  beside  him  now ;  a  contentment  which 
had  nothing  to  do  with  his  rank  or  his  distinction.  True, 
she  didn't  succeed  in  giving  him  her  undivided  attention, 
but  even  when  he  saw  that  her  eyes  could  not  be  kept 
from  wandering  to  her  husband  as  he  passed  her  in  his 
circling  of  the  room,  her  inattention  was  not  laid  up 
against  her. 

When  Dick  came  back  to  her  Captain  Home  was  bow- 
ing and  getting  ready  to  take  Colonel  Raynor's  place, 
so  he  consented  to  be  sent  away  again,  and  seeing  that 
she  was  never  alone,  he  kept  on  dancing.  Isabel  tried 
to  be  interested  in  the  various  men  and  their  conversa- 
tion, but  she  was  fancying  herself  among  the  dancers, 
always  picturing  herself  as  gliding  easily  and  gracefully 
over  the  floor ;  as  easily  as  Lily,  but  not  in  the  same  way. 
She  found  herself  hating  Lily's  dancing,  without  quite 
knowing  why.  Lily's  feet  seemed  all  lightness,  and  the 
rest  of  her  all  languor.  The  men  said  she  was  a  wonder- 
ful partner;  and  when  she  and  Dick  danced  together 
some  of  the  others  paused  to  look  at  them. 

Across  the  room,  Isabel  saw  Frank  watching  them,  his 
eager  dark  eyes  following  his  wife  intently.  It  struck 
her  again,  as  it  had  done  when  she  first  saw  them  to- 
gether, at  the  time  of  their  wedding,  that  he  seemed  too 
vivid  a  personality  for  so  slight  a  person  as  Lily.  How- 
ever, such  charm  as  she  had  still  appeared  to  hold  him. 


Isabel  Stirling  243 

As  the  evening  went  on  Isabel  grew  tired.  Her  eyes 
ached  with  the  incessant  circling  movement ;  it  was  hard 
to  talk  or  listen  in  such  a  noise ;  Dick  and  Lily  waltzed 
together  interminably.  Before  it  was  time  to  go  home 
she  had  decided  that,  for  a  person  who  didn't  dance, 
hops  were  tiresome — even  rather  hateful. 


XLVIII 

Luckily,  dancing  doesn't  make  up  the  whole  of  one's 
amusement  at  an  army  post.  The  great  adventure  of 
riding  was  at  hand.  Dick  was  fortunate  to  find  just  the 
right  horse  and  bought  it  immediately. 

"What  a  price!"  exclaimed  Isabel.  "I  had  no  idea 
horses  cost  so  much/' 

"Horses  don't,"  said  Dick.  "This  horse  does — and 
isn't  dear." 

"I'm  afraid  it's  too  good  for  a  beginner." 

"Not  when  you're  the  beginner.  I  only  wish  women 
had  the  sense  to  ride  astride." 

But  Isabel  did  not  wish  so.  She  took  the  most  naive 
pride  in  her  new  habit,  the  best  that  could  be  got  in  New 
York,  with  its  accompaniment  of  smart  hat,  gauntlets  and 
riding  crop.  She  had  a  good  saddle,  too — much  better 
than  she  was  yet  able  to  appreciate.  She  was,  to  be  sure, 
a  little  surprised  when  Dick,  explaining  its  good  points, 
dwelt  entirely  on  the  fact  that  it  was  so  easy  on  the  horse, 
hardly  seeming  to  consider  its  comfort  as  a  seat  for  her. 

She  looked  complacently  in  her  mirror  when  she  was 
dressed  for  her  first  lesson,  and  then  apprehensively  out 
of  the  window  at  the  horses,  with  the  orderly  standing 
at  their  heads. 

"  'Every  prospect  pleases/  "  she  quoted,  in  an  attempt 
at  light-mindedness,  "but  oh,  Dick,  I  think  I'm  a  little 
scared  of  the  horse.     He  looks  so  appallingly  powerful." 

"No,  you're  not  scared  of  him,"  said  Dick  with  deci- 
sion, "and  he's  powerful,  but  stupid.  He  doesn't  know 
enough  to  oppose  his  power  to  your  will,  if  only  you 
know  how  to  express  it.  Never  forget  that  you  are  the 
boss.     By  the  way,  his  name  is  Pat." 

He  had  never  spoken  to  her  in  just  that  tone  before. 

244 


Isabel  Stirling  245 

She  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  him  and  vowed  that  never 
again  would  she  confess  to  fear  of  a  horse  or  anything 
else.  She  would  live  up  to  Dick.  Incidentally,  she  meant 
to  ride  better  than  any  woman  at  the  post.  But,  standing 
beside  Pat,  she  still  regarded  that  superior  animal  with 
trepidation  and  wondered  how  in  the  world  she  was  ever 
to  get  into  the  saddle. 

"Come  now,  I'll  put  you  up,"  said  Dick. 

She  obeyed  directions  and  placed  her  foot  in  his  hand, 
wondering  silently  how  that  little  bit  of  help  was  going 
to  get  the  whole  of  her  up.  But  when,  at  his  command, 
she  obediently  straightened  her  knee  and  lifted  herself, 
without  even  springing,  as  would  have  been  her  impulse, 
she  found  herself,  by  some  miracle,  in  the  saddle.  Dick 
sorted  the  reins  for  her  and  put  them  into  her  hands, 
then  walked  around  her,  showed  her  how  to  rise  in  the 
stirrup  and  pull  her  skirt  into  place,  and  ordered  her  to 
sit  up  straight.  Then  he  swung  himself  into  his  own 
saddle  and  they  started  at  a  walk,  down  the  officers'  row, 
past  the  verandah  where  Lily  was  watching,  out  toward 
the  open  country.  Isabel  felt  a  wild  desire  to  cling  to 
the  pommel,  but  did  not  move  her  fingers  from  the  posi- 
tion in  which  Dick  had  placed  them. 

"Drop  your  hands  lower,"  he  commanded.  "Square 
your  shoulders  and  straighten  your  back.  Keep  your 
elbows  in  and  cheer  up!  Now  you  look  all  right — only 
you're  as  pale  as  a  ghost." 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  said,  breathlessly.  She  sat  rigidly, 
in  exactly  the  position  he  required,  not  daring  to  look 
either  to  the  right  or  to  the  left. 

"You  look  perfectly  fine,"  said  Dick,  encouragingly. 

"That  may  be  so,"  she  breathed  to  herself,  "but  it's  a 
long  way  to  the  ground." 

They  kept  their  horses  at  a  walk  and  gradually  she 
began  to  breathe  more  freely. 

"Now  we'll  trot  a  little,"  said  Dick.  They  were  out 
of  sight  of  the  post  by  this  time.  "Tighten  your  reins 
a  bit  and  relax  your  body,  so  that  you  can  rise  with  the 
horse." 


246  Isabel  Stirling 

She  tightened  the  reins  and  Pat  broke  into  a  swinging 
trot,  a  beautiful  easy  trot,  had  his  mistress  but  known  it, 
but  to  her  it  was  agonizing.  Her  body  had  remained  as 
stiff  as  a  ramrod,  every  muscle  tense,  and  at  each  stride 
of  the  horse  she  seemed  to  go  so  far  into  the  air  as  almost 
to  lose  her  saddle,  which  at  intervals  she  would  find  again 
with  a  most  painful  bump.  It  seemed  to  her  sheer  luck 
that  it  was  underneath  her  each  time  that  she  came  down. 

"Relax !  Relax !"  cried  Dick.  "Let  yourself  go  as  if 
— as  if  you  were  dropping  into  an  easy-chair." 

She  laughed  almost  hysterically  and  then,  with  a 
mighty  effort  of  will,  let  her  strained  muscles  relax,  with 
the  result  that  she  felt  herself  jumping  about  loosely, 
almost  as  uncertainly  as  before,  with  a  wobble  substi- 
tuted for  the  bump. 

"I'm  like  a  bag  of  meal,"  she  said.  They  were  the  first 
natural  words  she  had  spoken. 

"You  have  to  relax  intelligently."  They  dropped  into 
a  walk  again.    "Now  try!" 

She  said  to  herself:  "Of  course  I'm  horribly  afraid, 
but  I'm  going  to  do  it  just  the  same."  By  degrees  she  did 
better.    "Am  I  getting  the  idea  now  ?"  she  asked. 

"You're  getting  it  splendidly.  But  you  mustn't  keep 
it  up  too  long  the  first  time.    We'll  go  home  now." 

At  their  own  door  she  looked  doubtfully  from  the  horse 
to  the  ground.  "Aren't  you  going  to  lift  me  off?"  she 
asked. 

"No,  indeed." 

But  he  showed  her  how  to  do  it  and  she  landed  on  her 
toes,  lightly  and  safely.  As  they  went  up  the  steps  Lily 
came  strolling  over  from  her  own  verandah. 

"Sweet  thing !"  she  said.  "Were  you  as  frightened  as 
you  looked?  When  you  went  past  on  your  way  out  I 
thought  you  were  going  to  faint." 

"Can't  imagine  where  you  got  such  an  idea,"  broke  in 
Dick.  "She  just  naturally  rides.  She'll  outdo  everybody 
after  a  while." 

"Isn't  he  sweet,  to  be  so  proud  of  you  ?"  said  Lily. 

Isabel  thought  he  was,  but  didn't  choose  to  say  so, 


Isabel  Stirling  247 

or  to  mention  how  little  ground  he  had  for  pride  in  her 
performance.    "He's  a  good  teacher,"  she  said  carelessly. 

"And  one  ought  to  be  able  to  learn  to  ride  on  such  a 
lovely  horse,"  added  Lily.  "Do  let  me  try  him  some  day 
when  you're  not  going  out." 

But  Dick  had  already  said  that  no  one  else  must  ride 
Pat.     There  was  an  embarrassing  little  pause. 

"Well,"  said  Lily,  not  seeming  to  notice  that  she  had 
received  no  answer,  "I  must  be  going  back.  Come  over 
soon." 

Isabel  felt  rather  pleased  with  herself  all  day  and  was 
eager  for  the  morrow,  but  that  night  she  had  horrible 
nightmares.  She  was  falling — falling  off  a  horse  which 
was  as  high  as  a  house,  and  Dick  was  standing  by  and 
saying,  "No,  I  won't  help  you."  Or  the  horse  was  trot- 
ting and  throwing  her  up  high  into  the  air  and  Dick  was 
saying,  "Relax!"  It  was  a  relief  to  wake  up  in  the 
morning. 

She  was  sore  and  lame  from  her  bumping  and  after 
such  a  night  she  thought  she  would  be  more  afraid  than 
the  day  before,  but  having  made  up  her  mind  to  pay  no 
attention  to  fear,  it  gradually  diminished,  until,  as  the 
days  and  weeks  went  by,  she  forgot  it  altogether.  To  be 
sure,  it  was  a  breathless  experience  when  she  took  her 
first  lessons  in  jumping,  but  excitement  helped  her,  and 
she  came  to  love  the  sense  of  rising  from  the  earth  and 
the  feeling  of  the  tremendous  effort  which  the  powerful 
animal  was  making  at  her  bidding. 

"I  believe  you  do  the  spectacular  things  the  best,"  com- 
mented Dick  one  day  after  a  particularly  high  jump. 

"Doesn't  one  do  best  what  takes  one  out  of  oneself? 
Or  perhaps  what  brings  applause?    I'm  a  vain  thing." 

"You've  something  to  be  vain  of.  And  you're  not 
afraid  any  longer." 

She  turned  on  him.  "Did  I  ever  say  I  was  afraid — 
after  I  once  tried  it?" 

"You  had  too  much  pluck  to  say  it,  but  bless  you,  did 
you  suppose  I  didn't  know  it?  It  was  perfectly  fine,  your 
going  on  and  saying  nothing.     And  now  you  ride  like 


248  Isabel  Stirling 

a  natural-born  horsewoman.  You  have  a  good  seat  and 
good  hands.  From  the  first  you've  had  good  hands — as 
soon  as  you  dared  think  they  belonged  to  you.  And  you 
and  Pat  are  understanding  each  other  better  every  day. 
A  little  more  experience  and  I'd  trust  you  anywhere." 

"I  never  was  so  proud  in  my  life!"  She  turned  a 
flushed,  beaming  face  to  him.  "Oh — "  with  a  long  sigh 
— "there's  nothing  like  conquering.  Were  you  ever 
afraid,  Dick?" 

"Scared  to  death." 

"What  about?" 

"Well,  the  time  I  remember  best — "  he  stopped  sud- 
denly. 

"Oh,  go  on!    You've  really  got  to  tell  me  now." 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  much.  We  went  out  for  an  Indian 
who'd  sworn  to  have  my  scalp  and  we  had  to  go  along 
through  a  narrow  defile,  one  at  a  time,  and  I  in  front. 
I  was  fresh  from  the  Academy  then.  One  gets  over  it. 
One  has  to,  you  know." 

"Yes,  one  has  to.     What  happened?" 

"Nothing — we  didn't  find  him.  All  my  funk  was  for 
nothing,  you  see." 

"Does  he  still  want  your  scalp?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

Dick  grinned.  "You  needn't  worry  about  that.  Some- 
one brought  me  his,  one  day." 

"I'm  glad  of  it !"  Then  she  shivered  slightly.  "I  hope 
you  won't  be  sent  out  after  Indians  again." 

He  laughed  shortly.  "One  takes  what  comes.  Don't 
let's  worry.  Come  ori!  I  want  to  see  you  jump  that 
ditch  over  there." 

She  had  never  taken  such  a  long  jump  before,  but  she 
did  it  with  spirit. 

"Perfectly  bully !"  was  Dick's  comment,  and  her  mind 
was  diverted  from  Indians. 

In  fact,  why  should  she  think  of  them?  Indian  cam- 
paigning was  something  which,  in  her  inexperience, 
seemed  quite  past  as  far  as  Dick  was  concerned.  They 
were  in  a  lovely  place  now  and,  although  she  had  been 
told  that  they  might  have  to  leave  it  at  any  time,  she 


Isabel  Stirling  249 

did  not  take  the  warning  seriously.  Permanence  had 
been  the  keynote  of  her  life  in  Ptolemy. 

They  trotted  along  peacefully  and  presently  met  Lily, 
riding  with  young  Dakin,  a  boy  in  his  first  year  out  of 
the  Academy.  She  was  not  well  mounted.  She  was 
always  lamenting  to  Isabel  that  she  couldn't  afford  to 
buy  a  horse,  but  must  take  what  she  could  get.  However, 
she  seemed  to  be  enjoying  herself. 

"How  do  you  think  Lily  rides?"  asked  Isabel. 

"Oh,  not  very  well.     It  isn't  her  accomplishment." 

Isabel  was  about  to  say  that  dancing  was  her  accom- 
plishment, but  decided  not  to.  "She  rides  with  Mr.  Da- 
kin  pretty  often,"  she  said,  "considering " 

"Considering  nothing.    What's  the  harm  ?" 

"Well,  she  says  Frank  is  so  jealous." 

Dick  made  a  movement  of  vexation  which  caused  his 
horse  to  swerve.  He  brought  it  back  beside  her  and  said 
rather  hotly.  "Don't  talk  like  that!  I  hate  gossip,  and 
army  gossip  worst  of  all.  For  the  Lord's  sake,  don't 
get  into  any  of  it." 

"I  don't,"  said  Isabel,  in  a  hurt  tone.  "It's  only  what 
Lily  says  to  me  herself.  And  I  thought  I  could  say 
things  to  you.     Of  course  not  to  other  people." 

"I'm  sorry  if  I  was  cross.  You  see,  Frank  is  a  sensi- 
tive fellow,  and  sometimes  a  little  inclined  to  look  on  the 
dark  side  of  things  and  to  worry.  But  jealous — no !  He's 
the  best  fellow  in  the  world — and  the  best  friend  I  have." 

"He's  too  good  for  Lily,"  said  Isabel  shortly. 

"Oh,  come!" 

"She'll  torment  the  life  out  of  him — and  enjoy  herself 
doing  it." 

"She's  Frank's  wife.     Don't  let's  talk  about  her." 

Isabel  gave  her  head  a  little  indignant  lift.  Then  she 
turned  and  looked  at  Dick,  and  as  she  met  the  straight- 
forward glance  of  his  blue  eyes  she  laughed,  half  angry 
still,  but  seeing  the  uselessness  of  anger. 

"Your  dislike  of  hearing  anything  unpleasant  said 
about  people  is  almost  a  monomania,"  she  said. 

"Perhaps  it  is."     He  spoke  quietly  and  soberly  now. 


250  Isabel  Stirling 

"When  I  was  a  boy  I  happened  to  hear  some  lies  told 
about  someone  I  cared  for,  and  it  gave  me  a  hatred  for 
talk  of  that  kind — even  if  it  happens  not  to  be  lies." 

Isabel  loved  him  the  better  for  it.  And  anyway,  she 
rode  better  than  Lily. 

There  were  moments  when  she  needed  the  balm  of  that 
knowledge.  The  Saturday  night  hops  always  made  her 
feel  a  little  depressed,  whether  she  went  to  them  or  stayed 
away.  For,  although  Dick  would  not  go  without  her, 
that  made  her  uncomfortable;  and  when  she  went,  it 
seemed  as  if  Lily  were  always  trying  to  show  the  whole 
room  how  admirable  a  couple  they  two  were. 

"So  sweet  of  you  to  let  me.  have  him,"  Lily  would  say. 


XLIX 

The  riding  was  brought  to  an  end  by  the  doctor's  orders. 
Isabel  was  going  to  have  a  baby. 

This,  she  felt,  was  the  most  exciting  adventure  of  all. 
Terrifying,  as  well.  A  baby,  when  it  had  once  arrived, 
might  be  a  very  nice  thing  to  have ;  certainly,  she  did  not 
wish  to  be  a  childless  woman,  aside  from  the  unfairness 
to  Dick.  But  she  shrank  in  mingled  alarm  and  disgust 
from  all  that  lay  between  the  present  moment  and  the 
finished  accomplishment.  Her  alarm  she  could  put  aside 
more  easily  than  her  repugnance.  An  unceasing  physical 
self-consciousness  was  horrible  to  her.  Yet  there  were 
moments  when  she  became  aware  of  a  queer,  primitive 
pride  in  herself,  a  feeling  that  she  was  doing  something 
wonderful — something  which  she  was  made  for. 

And  then  Dick  was  so  sweet  to  her.  Surely,  it  was 
worth  while  to  put  up  with  a  good  deal  for  the  sake  of 
that  tenderness  of  love  and  care  which  transcended  any- 
thing that  she  had  yet  known.  She  recalled  Amy  Boyd 
and  her  distress  over  the  child  which  a  poor  professor 
could  not  afford  to  have.  Looking  around  her,  she  saw 
poor  army  families  in  the  same  plight;  and  she  was 
thankful  from  her  heart  that,  at  least,  she  and  Dick  need 
not  have  that  cause  of  anxiety.  She  felt  less  warmth 
of  gratitude  when  Lily  pointed  out  her  good  fortune. 

She  had  all,  and  more  than  all,  of  the  shyness  of  her 
generation,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  keep  her  secret 
from  Lily  and  from  everybody  else,  but  unfortunately 
such  secrets  cannot  be  kept;  and,  in  the  fact  that  she 
refrained  from  mentioning  the  situation  to  Lily,  the  lat- 
ter saw  no  reason  for  keeping  silence. 

"You  sweet  thing,"  she  said.  "It's  so  perfectly  lovely. 
There's  nothing  I  would  like  so  much  as  to  have  children 

251 


252  Isabel  Stirling 

— lots  of  them.  Frank  and  I  both  adore  them.  But  army 
officers  who  have  to  live  on  their  pay  never  ought  to  have 
children.  While  they  are  lieutenants  and  captains  they 
are  too  poor,  and  by  the  time  they  get  to  be  majors  they 
are  too  old.  to  begin  life  that  way.  You  are  so  lucky 
tc  have  money  enough  not  to  have  to  think  about  that." 

Isabel  was  speechless  with  embarrassment  and  annoy- 
ance. She  wished  Lily  would  stop,  but  didn't  know 
how  to  stop  her. 

"What  is  your  number  ?"  asked  Lily,  when  she  had 
said  all  the  congratulatory  things  she  could  think  of,  and 
had  made  Isabel  still  more  acutely  uncomfortable. 

"My  number  ?"  Isabel  couldn't  imagine  what  she 
meant. 

"Yes.     How  many  do  you  mean  to  have?" 

"Oh,  don't!"  exclaimed  Isabel. 

And  the  next  day  Lily  told  Mrs.  Bennett  that  it  was 
too  bad  that  Isabel  felt  so  about  having  a  baby.  "Per- 
fectly hates  it,  dear  Mrs.  Bennett.  Simply  can't  bear 
to  think  of  it  or  speak  of  it — even  to  me,  and  of  course 
she  would  talk  to  me  if  she  would  to  anyone.  We've 
known  each  other  all  our  lives.  I  think  it's  really  wicked. 
I'm  sure  I  would  be  glad  enough  if  I  were  in  her  place. 
Nobody  knows  how  Frank  and  I  feel  about  it."  She 
sighed  deeply. 

Mrs.  Bennett  did  not  care  particularly  for  Lily,  but 
saw  no  reason  to  disbelieve  her ;  and  so  she  was  unaware 
of  the  wistful,  tentative  advance  which  Isabel  made  to 
her  one  day.  Isabel,  in  her  supreme  ignorance  of  every- 
thing connected  with  the  affair,  had  thought  that  if  she 
could  once  conquer  her  shyness,  it  would  be  a  comfort 
to  talk  to  Mrs.  Bennett,  a  woman  old  enough  to  be  her 
mother,  and  with  a  kind  face  and  manner.  She  made  a 
morning  visit  on  purpose,  but  the  major's  wife  seemed, 
to  her  sensitiveness,  unresponsive,  and  she  came  away 
without  speaking.  Thrown  back  on  herself,  she  made 
no  further  attempt  to  confide  in  anybody,  while  the  ladies 
of  the  garrison,  having  been  given  to  understand  that  the 
subject  was  taboo,  carefully  avoided  ever  leading  up  to  it. 


Isabel  Stirling  253 

She  was  lonely  enough,  in  spite  of  Dick.  They  had 
already  begged  Cassie  to  come  and  visit  them  and,  for  a 
while,  had  expected  her.  But  Cassie  did  not  come,  and 
gave  no  very  satisfactory  reason.  She  was  spending  the 
winter  in  New  York  and  seemed  to  be  enjoying  herself. 

"If  there  were  any  special  reason,"  said  Dick,  who 
was  inclined  to  be  a  little  aggrieved.  Cassie  had  not  been 
used  to  fail  him. 

"Perhaps  there  is,"  said  Isabel.    "You  never  can  tell." 

Meantime,  however,  Lily  was  constant  in  her  visits. 
"I  want,"  she  said  one  day,  "to  make  something  pretty 
for  little  It.  What  would  you  rather  have  ?  What  have 
you  got?" 

"I  haven't  got  anything,"  said  Isabel,  and  closed  her 
lips  firmly  on  that  answer. 

"But  my  dear!"  Lily's  dismay  was  genuine.  What- 
ever might  be  her  real  feeling  about  babies,  there  was  no 
doubt  of  her  enthusiasm  with  regard  to  the  clothes  for 
them ;  and  she  loved  to  sew. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  such  things,"  said  Isabel 
indifferently. 

"You  poor  thing!    You  certainly  do  need  help." 

"Oh,  no.  It  will  all  come  right."  Not  for  worlds 
would  she  have  told  that  she  was  intending  to  arrange 
with  Cassie  to  have  the  little  wardrobe  made  and  sent 
out  to  her.  This,  she  felt,  was  no  time  for  her  to  try 
her  prentice  hand  at  sewing. 

So  Lily,  even  while  planning,  with  entire  good  will,  to 
contribute  her  own  beautiful  needlework  to  the  emer- 
gency, told  Mrs.  Bennett  and  others  that  Isabel  so  hated 
the  whole  thing  that  she  would  not  even  think  about 
planning  clothes  for  the  baby. 

To  Isabel  herself  she  said:  "Sweet  thing!  You'll  have 
to  learn  to  be  more  practical  than  that." 

Presently  she  broached  another  subject:  "Frank  can't 
go  to  the  hop  to-night,"  she  said.  "That  strained  knee 
bothers  him  and  Dr.  Kirby  says  he  must  keep  quiet.  He 
won't  hear  of  my  staying  home,  dear  thing,  but  I  won't 
go  without  a  man.    It's  so  stupid." 


254  Isabel  Stirling 

"Is  it?  You  dance  every  dance  whether  Frank  is  there 
or  not."    Isabel  was  not  particularly  interested. 

Lily  cocked  her  blonde  head  on  one  side  and  held  her 
work  off  at  arm's  length  to  admire  it.  "Sweet,  isn't  it?" 
she  said.  "I  can't  understand  your  not  taking  more  inter- 
est— well,  I  know  Dick  is  too  devoted  to  go  to  hops  just 
now,  but  we  thought  you  would  lend  him  to  me  for  this 
evening.  You  wouldn't  mind  just  one  evening,  would 
you?" 

"Lend  you  Dick !"  The  color  flamed  in  Isabel's  cheeks. 
"Dick  isn't  a  property  to  be  lent  by  me.  He  does  what 
he  likes." 

"And  of  course  he  likes  best  to  stay  home  with  you," 
said  Lily  sweetly.  "But— oh,  here  he  comes — dear  me, 
it  must  be  lunch-time.    I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late." 

Dick  came  briskly  up  the  steps.  "Good-morning,  Lily," 
he  said,  perching  himself  on  the  verandah  railing.  "How's 
Frank?    I  heard  his  knee  was  bad." 

"He's  sitting  with  his  foot  up,  poor  darling,  and  in- 
sists on  my  going  to  the  hop  to-night  without  him.  Of 
course,  I'd  rather  stay  with  him,  but  he  won't  listen  to 
it.    He  said,  if  you  were  going,  perhaps  you'd  take  me." 

"I'd  love  to — but  I  don't  go  to  hops.  How  about  the 
Bettses?" 

Lily  made  a  little  face.  "I  don't  hang  on  to  couples. 
Well,  it's  all  right,  and  I'd  so  much  rather  stay  home 
with  Frank.  I'll  tell  him  you  set  me  an  example  of  de- 
votion. If  only  he  doesn't  insist!"  she  sighed.  "You 
know  dear  Frank  is  perfectly  foolish  about  my  doing 
what  he  thinks  will  be  pleasant  for  me.  Of  course  he'll 
understand  your  refusing." 

Dick  flushed.  "There  can't  be  any  question  of  his 
understanding." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not,"  said  Lily,  gently.  "I'll  explain  why 
my  leap-year  sort  of  request  had  to  be  refused.  Frank 
is  unreasonably  sensitive,  you  know,  and  we  mustn't  al- 
ways humor  him." 

Dick  looked  uncomfortably  at  Isabel.  Whether  or  not 
there  was  a  question  in  his  glance,  she  read  it  there. 


Isabel  Stirling  255 

"I  think  you'd  better  go  with  Lily,"  she  said.  "It 
would  be  much  the  simplest  thing." 

"Sweet  thing!"  said  Lily,  leaning  forward  with  her 
caressing  touch. 

Dick's  face  cleared.  He  hated  the  idea  of  the  slightest 
misunderstanding  and  was  too  simply  straightforward  to 
suspect  that  Frank  knew  nothing  of  Lily's  plan. 

"If  you  really  don't  mind  my  leaving  you,"  he  said  to 
Isabel.  Then,  turning  to  Lily:  "You  see,  it's  just  as  the 
missus  says.  It  will  give  me  pleasure  to  be  a  handy  man, 
and  I'll  call  for  you." 

But  Isabel  just  then  hated  Lily;  hated  her  caressing 
manner  and  her  blonde  beauty — and  the  grace  of  her  slim 
form. 

She  did  not  sit  up  for  Dick  that  night,  but  went  to  bed 
early.    However,  she  was  not  asleep  when  he  came  in. 

He  slipped  in  softly,  but  seeing  that  her  eyes  were  open, 
leaned  over  and  kissed  her.    "Feeling  all  right  ?"  he  asked. 

She  put  up  her  hand  and  stroked  his  hair.  "It's  all 
moist,"  she  said.  "You  must  have  danced  hard.  Did 
you  have  a  good  time?" 

"Bully.  It  always  makes  me  warm,  but  Lily  doesn't 
turn  a  hair.  She's  like  thistledown,  and  just  as  cool  and 
unruffled  at  the  end  of  the  evening  as  at  the  beginning." 

"I'm  glad  you  had  a  pleasant  time."  The  slight  stiff- 
ness was  quite  lost  on  him.    "I  think  I'll  go  to  sleep  now." 

No,  she  assured  herself,  as  she  lay  awake  in  the  dark- 
ness, she  was  not  jealous.  She  could  not  be  so  utterly 
absurd  as  that.    But  she  was  teased,  irritated,  helpless. 


Of  course  Lily  came  over  in  the  morning.  She  took 
credit  to  herself  for  her  daily  visits.  When  she  came  in 
— as  usual,  without  knocking — Isabel  laid  her  pen  down 
and  self-consciously  thrust  a  sheet  of  paper  under  her 
blotter.  She  was  writing  to  Cassie  about  the  things 
which  she  wanted  sent. 

"I  want  to  tell  you,"  began  Lily,  "what  a  heavenly 
time  I  had  last  night.  It  was  so  sweet  of  Dick  to  take 
me  and  of  you  to  let  him  go.  And  really,  I  think  it  did 
him  good  too.  There's  nothing  like  dancing  to  freshen 
up  your  spirits.  Frank  says  it  pays  him  to  do  without  me 
for  a  while  to  have  me  come  back  so  livened  up.  Now, 
wasn't  it  just  that  way  with  Dick?" 

"Dick  said  he  had  a  good  time."  Isabel  got  up  from 
her  desk  and,  after  a  turn  around  the  room,  seated  her- 
self in  a  large  wicker  chair.  She  had  on  a  pale  pink 
morning  gown  in  which  Dick  had  told  her  that  she  looked 
lovely. 

"That's  a  sweet  dress,"  said  Lily,  looking  her  over 
with  her  competent,  critical  glance,  "and  a  wonderful 
disguise."  She  opened  her  work-basket  and  took  out  her 
sewing — the  baby-work  that  she  had  volunteered  to  do. 
"Isn't  it  sweet?"  she  said,  holding  up  the  little  garment. 
"Why,  I  declare,  it  makes  you  blush  just  to  look  at  it. 
I  never  saw  anything  like  you." 

Isabel  was  flushing  painfully  and  had  a  foolish  desire 
to  cry.  She  forced  her  voice  to  cordiality.  "You  do  it 
exquisitely.    I  never  saw  such  sewing." 

"I  do  sew  pretty  well,"  said  Lily,  complacently.  She 
took  a  few  more  stitches  and,  with  her  eyes  still  on  her 
work,  asked  in  a  casual  tone :  "What  are  you  going  to  do 
with  your  horse  until  you  can  ride  him  again  ?" 

"Dick  said  he  would  arrange  to  have  him  taken  care 
of." 

256 


Isabel  Stirling  257 

"I'd  love  to  exercise  him  for  you." 

Isabel  was  furious  with  herself  for  not  having  said 
something — anything,  to  forestall  this,  and  vexed  at  Dick 
for  his  procrastination  about  sending  Pat  away.  "No- 
body ever  rides  him  but  me,"  she  said,  not  too  graciously. 
"Dick  said  it  was  better  for  him  not  to  be  ridden  by 
anyone  else." 

"Naturally — when  you  are  riding  him  regularly.  And 
of  course  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  get  on  him  if  you 
would  rather  I  wouldn't.  Only  Dick  said — M  She 
paused. 

"What  did  Dick  say?"  asked  Isabel,  and  then  was  sorry 
that  she  had  spoken. 

"Oh,  nothing  very  much.  We  were  talking  about  Pat, 
and  he  said  it  would  be  nice  for  me  to  ride  him  if  you 
were  willing — that  I  should  ask  you." 

Isabel  would  have  been  less  credulous  if  she  had  not 
still  been  a  little  sore  from  the  evening  before.  Lily 
could  wind  Dick  around  her  finger,  she  said  to  herself 
scornfully,  and — well,  if  he  had  encouraged  her  to  ask 
for  the  horse,  nothing  mattered  very  much. 

"If  Dick  chooses  to  let  you,  I  shan't  say  anything," 
she  said. 

Certainly,  she  was  ungracious,  but  Lily  was  diplomati- 
cally impervious.  With  effusive  thanks,  she  folded  up 
her  work  and  took  her  joyful  way  homeward. 

All  that  day  Dick  wondered  what  was  wrong.  There 
was  an  aloofness  in  his  wife's  manner,  an  avoidance  of 
his  anxious  attentions,  which  first  distressed  and  then 
irritated  him.  When  he  asked  her  what  was  the  matter, 
she  replied,  "Oh,  nothing,"  with  a  bleak  smile  which  sig- 
nified— oh,  everything.  In  short,  as  he  put  it  to  himself, 
she  had  no  use  for  him.  Well,  he  told  himself  reasonably, 
she  was  entitled  to  her  moods.  They  were  doubtless  part 
of  a  state  of  things  which  he  had  already  found  less  sim- 
ple than  he  had  ever  supposed.  But  meantime,  since  he 
evidently  only  vexed  her,  he  might  as  well  take  himself 
out  of  the  way  for  a  while. 


258  Isabel  Stirling 

"I  think  I'll  go  over  to  the  club  for  a  bit,"  he  said 
casually. 

"Yes,"  said  Isabel,  and  was  unable  to  think  of  any- 
thing further  to  say.  But  when  he  was  gone  she  shed 
miserable  tears.  If  she  had  looked  out  of  the  window 
she  might  have  seen  that  he  did  not  get  to  the  club  after 
all.  As  he  passed  Lieutenant  Hazleton's  quarters  Lily 
called  to  him  from  the  verandah  and,  after  standing  talk- 
ing on  the  sidewalk  for  a  few  moments,  he  went  up  the 
steps  and  sat  down  beside  her.  After  all,  one  place  was 
as  good  as  another.   .    .    . 

Isabel  woke  early  the  next  morning  and  sat  up  in  bed. 
The  sky  was  deeply,  beautifully  blue ;  a  rose-laden  branch 
from  the  tall  bush  outside  was  pressing  its  pink  sweet- 
ness against  her  window-screen.  The  world  seemed  made 
over  afresh.  Her  sense  of  injury  had  somehow  vanished. 
Doubtless,  Lily  had  bamboozled  Dick  and  he  couldn't 
help  it.  Anyway,  she  wanted  to  be  friends  with  him. 
When  he  came  to  her  bedside  all  dressed  for  his  morning 
ride  she  held  out  her  arms  to  him  and  laid  her  cheek 
against  his. 

To  him,  yesterday  was  as  if  it  had  never  been.  "How 
I  wish  you  could  go  with  me,  darling,"  he  said,  as  he 
smoothed  her  hair. 

"I  wish  so  too,"  sighed  she,  but  not  unhappily.  "Do 
you  have  to  go  alone  ?" 

"Not  this  time.  The  Hazletons  asked  me  to  join 
them." 

"Oh!"  A  shadow  fell  over  her  face.  "Well,  good- 
bye."   Would  Lily  ride  Pat?    She  would  not  ask. 

"Take  care  of  yourself."  He  closed  the  door  softly 
and  ran  downstairs  whistling. 

She  stayed  in  bed  for  breakfast  and  pretended  to  be 
asleep  when  Dick  came  up  to  see  her.  They  met  at 
luncheon  and  talked  about  one  thing  and  another,  until 
he  presently  said: 

"I'm  rather  sorry  that  you  let  Lily  ride  Pat.  She  isn't 
going  to  do  him  any  good.  She  jerks  his  mouth.  How 
did  you  come  to  let  her  have  him?" 


Isabel  Stirling  259 

"I  let  her  have  him?"  cried  Isabel  indignantly.  "It 
wasn't  I,  it  was  you." 

"Me?    I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about." 

The  world  suddenly  seemed  brighter.  "I  might  have 
known!  Now  what  did  you  say  to  her?  She  told  me 
that  you  said  it  would  be  nice  for  her  to  ride  him  if  I 
would  let  her — and  that  you  told  her  to  ask  me." 

"She  misunderstood  me.  I  dare  say  it  was  my  fault, 
but  I  never  meant  her  to  get  any  encouragement  from 
me.  She  asked  me  about  it,  and  I  simply  said  he  was 
your  horse  and  I  didn't  have  the  disposal  of  him.  And 
I  told  her  you  were  thinking  of  sending  him  out  to  Jen- 
kins'  ranch." 

Isabel  smiled  at  him  teasingly.  "You  shirked  and  put 
it  on  my  shoulders  to  refuse." 

"Yes,  I  shirked,"  said  Dick  penitently. 

"It  was  horrid  of  you.    And  yet,  if " 

"If?" 

"If  I  could  keep  Sam  out  of  the  room  long  enough, 
I'd  run  around  there  and  kiss  you.  I  haven't  really  kissed 
you  since  yesterday  morning.  I've  been  so  furious  at 
you  for  letting  Lily  have  my  horse  and  then  going  out 
riding  with  her." 

"Good  gracious !"  said  Dick,  jumping  up  from  his  seat. 
"Never  mind  Sam !" 

"Go  back!  There  he  comes!  But  to  think — oh,  just 
to  think  that  I  believed  her — when  I've  always  known  she 
was  a  liar !" 

"Oh,  I  don't  suppose  she  meant  to  lie,"  said  Dick  easily. 
"She  only  misunderstood — and  wanted  to  understand  it 
her  own  way.    We're  all  more  or  less  like  that." 

"I  believe,"  said  Isabel,  vexed,  "that  you'd  stand  up 
for  the  devil  himself." 

"Perhaps.    There's  no  telling." 

"And  meantime,  she's  got  to  use  poor  Pat?  Can't  I 
get  him  away?" 

"Certainly,"  he  replied  firmly.  "Pat  picked  up  a  nail 
in  his  hoof  this  morning — can't  be  ridden  for  a  month. 
Shockingly  careless  of  the  stable  orderly,  wasn't  it?" 


LI 

The  next  day's  mail  brought  a  piece  of  news  which  put 
everything  else  out  of  their  heads.  Cassie  really  had  been 
getting  herself  engaged  and,  astounding  to  contemplate, 
engaged  to  Lansing  Fordyce. 

"But  I've  never  seen  the  fellow,"  said  Dick,  in  an 
injured  tone. 

"I  have,"  said  Isabel. 

"What's  he  like?" 

She  had  not  thought  of  him  for  ages.  It  seemed  queer 
now,  to  think  of  him  as  a  brother-in-law.  She  ran  her 
fingers  up  and  down  the  arm  of  her  chair  and  reflected 
for  a  moment  before  she  spoke. 

"It's  some  years,  you  know,"  she  said.  "Well,  he's 
tall  and  slender  and  dark — I  like  blue  eyes  best " 

"Thanks.    Goon." 

"And  aristocratic-looking.  And  his  manners  are — 
quite  charming,  I  think." 

"Sounds  as  if  you  didn't  like  him.  What's  the 
matter?" 

"Oh,  but  I  did  like  him  immensely."  She  felt  deceit- 
ful, but  how,  under  present  circumstances,  could  she  tell 
him  anything  more?  And  really,  there  was  nothing  to 
tell,  except  that  Lansing  Fordyce  had  been  a  rather  enter- 
prising flirt  and  she  had  been  a  little  fool.  Yet  somehow 
she  felt  as  if  there  were  a  good  deal  of  her  past  life  which 
Dick  did  not  know.  She  went  on  trying  to  elucidate  him 
to  Dick. 

"I'm  trying,"  she  said,  "to  think  what  he  was  really 
like.  Clever  and  delightful — and  I  do  think  you'll  like 
him." 

"Not  fast  or  anything?" 

"Oh,  no.  How  could  I  tell?  But  I  never  heard  so. 
And  I  do  think  you  could  trust  Cassie." 

260 


Isabel  Stirling  261 

She  felt  that  she  herself  could  trust  Cassie.  If,  as  she 
had  always  suspected,  that  intelligent  young  woman  had 
divined  something  of  what  she  had  gone  through,  nobody 
would  ever  be  the  wiser.  When  Dick  said  that  since 
the  wedding  was  not  to  be  before  the  next  winter,  they 
could  go  east  for  it,  she  wondered,  a  little,  what  it  would 
be  like  to  see  Mr.  Fordyce  again.  She  thought  she  would 
like  to  have  him  see  how  happy  she  was.  What  she  said 
was: 

"I  wonder  what  Father  and  Lydia  will  do  about  me 
if  I  go  back  there." 

However,  nothing  mattered  just  now  except  this  tre- 
mendous undertaking  which  she  had  on  hand.  And  pres- 
ently came  other  engrossing  matters. 

For  one  thing,  Dick  got  his  first  lieutenancy.  Isabel, 
rejoicing  with  him,  found  her  pleasure  not  at  all  enhanced 
by  Lily's  plaintive  congratulations,  coupled  with  a  re- 
minder that  she  and  Dick  did  not  need  the  increased  pay 
as  much  as  some  other  second  lieutenants  did. 

Following  directly  on  the  promotion  came  orders  for 
a  change  of  station.  B  Troop  was  to  be  sent  to  a  small 
post  in  Arizona,  while  C  Troop,  to  which  Lieutenant 
Hazleton  belonged,  was  to  be  stationed  at  a  much  nearer 
point. 

"For  your  sake,"  said  Dick,  "I  could  almost  wish  I 
were  in  Frank's  place." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Isabel  cheerfully,  immensely 
relieved  at  the  prospect  of  a  separation  from  Lily. 

"But  it's  a  God-forsaken  place  and  they  tell  me  it's  a 
beastly  journey.  I  don't  know  whether  you  ought  to 
undertake  it.    Perhaps  I'd  better  send  you  east." 

"I  won't  go!  Don't  other  women  travel?  Aren't 
babies  born  everywhere  ?  And  besides,  where  could  I  go  ? 
You  know  my  father  and  Lydia  wouldn't  have  me,  even 
if  I  were  willing  to  go  there." 

"There's  Cassie." 

Isabel  had  her  own  reasons  for  being  horrified  at  this 
suggestion.  "What !"  she  cried.  "Mix  up  our  baby  busi- 
ness with  Cassie's  love  affair?     Think  how  horrid  for 


262  Isabel  Stirling 

her !  And  for  me  too !  She's  going  to  have  a  houseful 
of  guests,  and  Mr.  Fordyce  coming  and  going.  Why, 
this  is  her  wonderful  summer.  Oh,  Dick,  a  thousand 
times  no!" 

"I'm  sure  Dr.  Brenton  would  be  glad  to  have  you  go 
there." 

"I  know — but  Dick,  don't  send  me  away  from  you." 
She  put  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  laid  her  head  on 
his  shoulder.  "Dick,"  she  whispered,  "I  can  bear  any- 
thing as  long  as  you  are  with  me.  And  the  only  place 
in  the  world  where  I  want  to  be  is  where  you  are.  I'll 
get  along." 

After  all,  other  women  did  get  along,  as  everyone 
knew;  and  of  their  special  hardships  Dick  and  Isabel 
were  equally  ignorant.  Even  the  doctor's  advice  was  not 
as  emphatic  as  it  might  have  been  if  he  had  ever  taken 
that  particular  journey.  To  be  sure,  at  the  last  minute 
Mrs.  Bennett  decided  that  she  could  not  any  longer  re- 
frain from  telling  that  young  thing  how  terribly  impru- 
dent she  was  in  even  thinking  of  such  a  thing  as  going 
just  now,  and  went  over  to  talk  to  her.  It  was  too  late 
for  her  advice  to  prevail,  but  she  found  Isabel  touchingly 
grateful. 

"If  you  had  only  known  how  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you ! 
I  tried  one  day — but  somehow  I  couldn't." 

"My  dear!"  said  Mrs.  Bennett.  "How  sorry  I  am! 
I  thought — we  all  thought  you  were  unwilling  to  speak 
or  to  be  spoken  to  about  it." 

"Not  if  it  had  been  you,"  said  Isabel. 

They  had  a  long,  intimate,  comforting  talk,  but  still 
Isabel  would  not  give  up  her  intention  of  going  with  her 
husband.  Other  women  did  it,  she  .said,  and  that,  Mrs. 
Bennett,  with  all  her  head-shaking,  could  not  deny. 

So  the  preparations  went  on  with  all  speed  and,  with 
the  packing  of  the  boxes  and  barrels,  the  spirit  of  adven- 
ture seized  Isabel  and  she  did  not  wholly  regret  leaving 
even  an  earthly  paradise,  innocently  hoping  to  find 
charms  in  the  new  place.  In  this  state  of  blissful  igno- 
rance she  embarked  at  San  Francisco  on  the  steamer 


Isabel  Stirling  263 

which  was  to  carry  them  on  the  first  stage  of  their  jour- 
ney. That  first  stage  lasted  a  fortnight.  Two  weeks  of 
intense,  overpowering  heat,  of  provisions  gradually  spoil- 
ing, so  that  toward  the  end  one  went  hungry,  sickened 
by  the  noisome  odors  of  the  food  which  must  needs  be 
prepared,  even  though  no  one  could  eat  k. 

"We've  left  Paradise  and  we're  going  through  purga- 
tory," said  Isabel,  as  she  turned  in  languid  disgust  from 
the  breakfast  which  had  been  brought  to  her  as  she  sat 
on  deck  under  an  awning.  "What  is  it  going  to  be  next, 
Dick?" 

"Two  of  the  soldiers  died  in  the  night,"  said  a  woman 
who  was  lying  stretched  out  in  the  steamer-chair  next 
to  her. 

Isabel  closed  her  eyes  and  reached  out  for  Dick's  hand. 
In  his  heart  he  damned  the  other  woman.  Looking  at 
her  pale  face,  he  said  remorsefully,  "I  ought  to  have  sent 
you  east.    We  could  have  found  some  place." 

"I'll  be  all  right  when  we  get  off  this  boat,"  she  an- 
swered. 

But  after  that  there  was  another  boat;  a  boat  which 
was  tied  up  to  the  river  bank  at  night  and  only  went  on 
during  the  hot,  interminable  days.  Isabel  had  never  im- 
agined such  heat.  The  diet  of  salt  beef,  dry  biscuits  and 
strong  black  coffee  was  next  to  impossible  to  her  and  she 
felt  ill  and  weak.  All  day  she  lay  on  her  steamer  chair 
and  during  most  of  the  time  was  glad  to  close  her  eyes 
to  the  view  of  desolate  flat  desert  lands  and  the  red  seeth- 
ing waters  of  the  Colorado  River.  But  behind  those 
closed  eyes  and  underneath  that  deadly  sense  of  sick  ex- 
haustion her  spirit  was  unbroken.  If  not  for  herself, 
then  for  the  baby  that  was  coming,  she  must  rally  all  her 
vital  forces  to  surmount  this  terrible  journey.  "Don't 
worry  about  me,"  she  said  to  Dick,  as  he  hung  over  her. 
"It's  too  hot  to  worry  about  anything.  Just  mop  your 
poor  dear  face  and  keep  quiet.  It  will  all  be  behind  us 
sometime." 

But  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  to  go  on  forever,  after 
a  week  had  passed  and  they  were  still  not  near  the  end 


264  Isabel  Stirling 

of  this  stage  of  their  journey.  It  was  toward  the  end  of 
the  second  week  of  it  when  they  at  last  left  the  steamer 
and  rested  themselves  at  a  friendly  post,  where  the  kind 
officers  and  their  wives  did  everything  for  them  that  hos- 
pitality could  suggest,  before  starting  them  off  again. 

Isabel  had  thought  that  traveling  in  the  comfortable 
carriage,  which  they  had  bought  in  San  Francisco,  would 
be  a  delightful  treat,  after  the  recent  experience,  and 
camping  out  at  night  sounded  romantic  and  refreshing. 
When  the  long  train  started  out  her  spirits  had  quite  re- 
vived. The  carriage,  with  its  six  mules  seemed  to  her 
a  most  luxurious  equipage.  To  be  sure,  Dick  could  not 
travel  with  her,  as  he  had  to  ride  with  his  troop,  but  she 
had  invited  nice,  friendly  Mrs.  Betts,  the  wife  of  the 
captain  of  Troop  B,  to  drive  with  her.  "Get  the  best- 
natured  woman  you  can  find,"  Dick  had  counseled  her. 
"You'll  find  the  trip  a  strain  on  the  disposition/' 

Mrs.  Betts  fulfilled  the  requirement  and  the  friendship 
begun  on  that  journey  was  never  quite  broken,  even  after 
years  of  separation. 

"Why  haven't  I  known  you  better  before  this?"  Isabel 
would  say. 

"You  were  somewhat  monopolized,"  Mrs.  Betts  once 
answered. 

"I  didn't  want  to  be,"  Isabel  replied  quickly.  "Any- 
way, that's  past."  And  indeed,  she  felt  that,  as  regarded 
comradeship,  her  army  life  was  just  beginning. 

But  between  hot  winds  and  driving  sand  during  the 
day,  and  the  horrid  fear  of  snakes  at  night,  the  trip  was 
not  by  any  means  what  her  fancy  had  pictured  it.  As 
day  followed  day,  with  its  routine  of  making  and  break- 
ing camp,  its  heat  and  sandstorms  and  snakes,  and  always 
the  same  desolate  scenery,  Isabel  began  to  wonder  whether 
they  were  ever  going  to  get  anywhere 

"I  feel,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Betts,  "as  if  I  belonged  to 
a  nomadic  tribe — only  if  we  did,  I  think  we  might  per- 
haps choose  a  better  country." 

"They  say  we  are  going  to  get  to  a  better  country," 


Isabel  Stirling  265 

said  Mrs.  Betts.  "And  for  that  matter,  we  are  nomads, 
we  army  people." 

They  got  to  the  better  country  soon;  a  land  of  grass 
and  trees  and  game;  restful  to  the  eyes  and  comforting 
to  the  appetite.  Again  a  break  in  the  journey  and  a  short 
stop  at  another  comfortable  army  post,  and  then  on 
again;  on  through  a  wilderness  where  the  carriage 
pitched  and  tossed  over  rocks  and  fallen  trees,  and 
swayed  on  the  brink  of  precipices ;  where  the  nights  were 
cold  and  a  stove  was  set  up  in  one's  tent ;  where  bands  of 
hostile  Indians  roved  and  no  one  could  wander  far  from 
camp,  and  where  every  night  held  its  terrors.  Isabel  had 
her  own  pistol  and  Dick  had  taught  her  how  to  use  it. 
She  knew  that  its  possible  use  might  be  to  put  an  end 
to  her  own  life  if  there  should  be  at  any  time  a  certainty 
of  capture  by  Indians  of  a  most  cruel  tribe.  She  refused 
to  think  of  the  possibility  and  kept  the  pistol  out  of  sight. 
And  at  last  they  arrived  at  their  destination. 

It  was  in  a  log  cabin  that  the  Maidens  once  more  set 
up  their  household  possessions — such  of  them  as  were 
left  after  the  mischances  of  the  journey.  There  were 
enough,  however,  for  the  smaller  quarters,  and  Isabel 
cared  little  just  then  for  breakages  and  losses. 


LH 

Isabel's  spirit  had  been  more  enduring  than  her  body. 
There  came,  all  too  soon,  a  dreadful  day  and  night  when, 
as  in  a  nightmare,  she  was  aware  of  a  strange  doctor,  of 
Dick's  anguished  face,  of  Mrs.  Betts's  cheerful,  coura- 
geous help,  before  she  became  unconscious  altogether  and 
knew  nothing  of  the  fight  that  was  being  made  to  save 
her. 

When,  at  last,  she  opened  her  eyes  again  and  mistily 
saw  her  husband's  face  she  had  forgotten,  for  the  mo- 
ment, what  it  was  all  about.  She  wondered  weakly  why, 
when  Dick  leaned  over  her,  a  drop  of  water  fell  on  her 
face.  He  kissed  her  and  she  wished  he  wouldn't.  She 
wanted  all  the  air.     She  closed  her  eyes  again.   .    .    . 

Later,  when  she  came  back  to  life,  she  found  that  her 
untimely  baby  had  been  born  dead. 


266 


LIII 

When,  in  the  winter,  Dick  took  his  leave  and  they  went 
to  Cassie's  wedding,  Isabel  found  herself  relieved  from 
a  very  considerable  source  of  embarrassment.  Her  father 
and  his  wife  were  no  longer  living  in  Ptolemy.  This  was 
a  thing  which  she  could  never  have  anticipated,  for  how- 
ever movable  she  herself  might  have  become,  it  seemed 
against  nature  that  anyone  but  her  father  should  be  living 
in  the  old  parsonage  on  the  hill. 

Indeed,  it  had  seemed  somewhat  that  way  to  William 
Stirling  himself.  When  he  accepted  a  professorship  in  a 
theological  seminary  he  felt  that  it  was  an  admission  of 
defeat;  an  admission  which  was  not  rendered  less  bitter 
by  the  consciousness  that  such  a  position  would  be  more 
congenial  to  his  present  taste  than  the  pastorate.  To  in- 
still a  knowledge  of  Hebrew  into  the  minds  of  young  men 
seemed  to  him  a  less  exalted  vocation  than  to  instill  the 
fear  of  God  into  their  souls,  but  he  knew  himself  compe- 
tent to  do  the  one  and  felt  that  he  had  failed  in  the  other. 
He  was  a  fighter  and  he  had  been  beaten.  He  was  sore, 
too,  over  the  knowledge  that  his  people,  among  whom  he 
had  worked  for  so  many  years,  were  ready  for  a  change. 
They  deprecated  his  resignation  half-heartedly  and  as  a 
matter  of  form,  but  carefully  avoided  asking  him  to 
reconsider  it.  He  bade  them  good-bye  in  bitterness  of 
soul.  And  yet,  to  his  surprise,  when  the  break  was  once 
made,  he  confronted  the  new  career  in  a  more  adventur- 
ous spirit  than  he  would  have  thought  possible,  and  felt 
himself  more  in  his  element  among  the  young  theologues 
than  with  the  good  sisters  of  his  congregation. 

As  for  Lydia,  although,  as  a  matter  of  course,  she  over- 
flowed with  all  the  proper  platitudes  of  parting,  she  was 
delighted.    True,  a  theological  seminary  was  not  a  uni- 

267 


268  Isabel  Stirling 

versity,  but  it  was  a  step  in  that  direction.  She  would 
now  be,  as  she  expressed  it  to  herself,  "one  of  the  faculty." 

And  so  Isabel  could  go  with  an  easy  mind  to  stay  in 
her  father-in-law's  house.  She  had  dreaded  Peter  Mai- 
den a  little  and  was  surprised  to  find  how  much  she  liked 
him.  He  seemed  to  her  much  older  than  when  she  had 
last  seen  him,  his  broad  shoulders  bent  and  his  heavy 
figure  somewhat  shrunken.  He  had  grown  absent-minded 
and  his  eyes  looked  tired,  although  they  lighted  up  with 
pride  and  affection  when  they  rested  on  his  son.  He  was 
gentler  than  she  had  supposed  and  his  years  of  prosperity 
and  of  contact  with  the  world  had  smoothed  off  most  of 
his  superficial  roughness.  He  had  never  been  rough  at 
the  core.  He  was  kind  to  her,  not  talking  much  to  her, 
but  evidently  anxious  to  make  her  feel  that  she,  no  less 
than  Dick  and  Cassie,  was  a  child  of  the  house.  In  some 
incomprehensible  way,  he  touched  her  heart,  and  the 
pretty  deference  of  her  manner  to  him  was  entirely  spon- 
taneous. It  pleased  him  and  delighted  Dick  and  made 
Cassie  take  her  quite  unreservedly  to  her  heart. 

Cassie  was  frankly  happy,  although  she  had  not  at- 
tained happiness  without  some  doubts  and  questionings. 
Lansing  Fordyce  had  not  found  her  easy  to  win.  She 
could  not  forget  that  she  had  been  almost  won  before, 
and  she  was  wary  of  him  and  of  herself.  As  for  him, 
he  had  long  ago  persuaded  himself  that  his  brief  infatua- 
tion for  Isabel  had  been  caused  by  Cassie's  inaccessibility, 
that,  in  short,  it  was  all  her  fault. 

"I've  waited  for  you  a  good  while,"  he  said  to  her. 
"You  nearly  drove  me  into  making  a  fool  of  myself 
once" — and  that  was  the  only  allusion  ever  made  to  that 
affair. 

Cassie  smiled  at  his  dexterity;  hesitated,  half  thought 
she  would  turn  her  back  on  him  and  go  to  visit  Dick  and 
Isabel;  then  silently  forgave  him,  quite  aware  that  she 
had  something  to  forgive.  "But  then,  I'm  not  perfect 
myself,"  she  thought.  Moreover,  whatever  wounds  Isa- 
bel had  sustained  were  quite  healed  and  forgotten. 

Cassie  believed  that  Lansing  loved  her  now.    Whether 


Isabel  Stirling  269 

or  not  he  had  at  first  cared  unduly  for  her  fathers  money, 
he  had  by  this  time  become  too  successful  for  that  to  be 
much  of  a  consideration.  His  career  was  well  started  and 
he  was  a  rising  man  and  one  of  whom  much  was  expected 
by  the  older  men  in  his  profession.  And  as  for  herself, 
she  knew  that,  down  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  she  had 
always  cared.  Nevertheless,  she  could  not  help  having  a 
certain  curiosity  to  see  what  effect  Isabel  would  have  on 
him  now,  and  thought  she  would  rather  have  them  meet 
on  the  day  before  the  wedding  than  on  the  day  after. 

For  his  part,  he  took  no  interest  in  the  prospective 
meeting.  Why  should  he  ?  One  doesn't  get  excited  over 
the  recollection  of  every  pretty  girl  with  whom  one  has 
had  a  passing  flirtation.  He  had  more  than  half  for- 
gotten the  incidents  of  that  episode,  and  would  have  been 
surprised  if  he  had  known  that  Cassie  gave  it  a  thought; 
equally  surprised  if  he  had  suspected  that  to  Isabel  there 
was  excitement  in  the  prospect  of  the  meeting.  Isabel 
knew  that  he  had  behaved  horridly.  She  could  not  be 
thankful  enough  that  the  affair  had  ended  as  it  did  and 
that  she  was  married  to  Dick,  but  no  woman  is  going  to 
be  quite  indifferent,  to  a  meeting,  after  the  lapse  of  years, 
with  a  man — especially  the  first  man — with  whom  she 
has  fancied  herself  in  love. 

It  was  on  the  day  before  the  wedding  that  he  arrived. 
Cassie  saw  him  in  the  drawing-room,  but  presently  took 
him  into  the  library,  where  Isabel  and  Dick  were  un- 
packing presents.  Dick,  who  was  near  the  door,  came 
forward  and  greeted  him  with  the  external  cordiality 
which  the  occasion  demanded  and  the  inward  critical  in- 
terrogation of  the  brother  who  confronts  for  the  first 
time  his  sister's  prospective  husband.  One  could  hardly 
expect  that  he  would  be  quite  good  enough  for  Cassie. 
However,  the  first  impression  was  a  favorable  one.  In 
looks  and  manner  Fordyce  pleased  him.  Unconsciously 
he  exhaled  a  breath  of  relief  as  Isabel,  dropping  a  mass 
of  tissue  paper  and  still  holding  a  bronze  card-receiver, 
came  toward  them.  "I  believe  you  know  my  wife,"  said 
Dick. 


270  Isabel  Stirling 

Even  beauty  has  its  off  days.  To  be  sure,  Isabel  was 
never  less  than  beautiful,  but  she  had  her  more  perfect 
times,  and  her  great  moments  of  radiant  loveliness;  mo- 
ments when  one  caught  one's  breath.  This,  from  what- 
ever reason,  was  not  one  of  her  best  days.  However,  she 
was  not  thinking  about  her  looks.  Never,  even  at  worst, 
having  any  real  cause  for  dissatisfaction,  she  could  well 
afford  to  be  unconscious.  Her  eyes  were  filled  with  curi- 
osity, but  her  manner  was  careless.  Perhaps  that  care- 
lessness was  a  little  conscious. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  again/'  she  said  banally,  as  they 
shook  hands. 

He  seemed  to  her  at  the  same  time  unchanged  and 
unfamiliar.  In  that  unfamiliarity  was  the  measure  of 
her  own  change  since  she  had  last  seen  him.  If  some 
small  portion  of  herself  had  been  held  in  bondage,  not 
by  him  but  by  the  fact  of  the  old  infatuation,  she  was 
now  set  free.  Not  that  she  was  consciously  free  any 
more  than  she  had  been  consciously  bound.  She  only  felt 
elated  and  inclined  to  talk  nonsense. 

His  manner  was  quite  all  that  it  should  be,  but  Cassie, 
studying  the  two,  was  fully  aware  of  their  entire  indiffer- 
ence to  each  other.  Lansing  was  really  more  interested 
in  Dick  than  in  Dick's  wife. 

"You  have  fourteen  card-receivers,"  said  Isabel,  ex- 
hibiting the  latest  one.  "What  in  the  world  are  you  go- 
ing to  do  with  them?" 

She  turned  to  Fordyce.  "You  know,"  she  said,  "a 
card-receiver  seems  to  me  the  most  useless  thing  one  can 
have.  We  live  in  a  log  cabin  and  don't  even  have  a  door- 
bell. Some  of  the  Ptolemy  people  insist  that  we  draw 
rations  and  all  eat  at  the  same  mess,  and  they  won't  be- 
lieve me  when  I  tell  them  that  we  don't,  and  that  we  have 
dinner  parties  even  if  we  don't  have  doorbells." 

"And  you  like  the  army  life?"  said  Fordyce,  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something.  Her  interests  were,  he  fan- 
cied, at  the  opposite  pole  from  his. 

"I  love  it!    There's  nothing  like  it!" 

Her    enthusiasm   struck   him   as    schoolgirlish.      He 


Isabel  Stirling  271 

looked  from  her  to  Cassie  and  contentment  possessed  his 
soul.  Isabel  was  lovely  to  look  at ;  Cassie  was  pleasing, 
but  not  beautiful.  Although  he  had  once,  for  a  short 
time,  been  attracted  by  Isabel's  youthful  naivete — the 
naivete  of  a  very  young  girl  who  has  seen  nothing,  known 
nothing  and  is  developing  from  moment  to  moment — 
the  kind  of  woman  he  preferred  to  all  others  was  the  fin- 
ished woman  of  society;  finished,  but  sincere;  and  that 
was  Cassie.  He  somewhat  cruelly  characterized  Isabel  as 
half-baked;  a  handsome  young  woman  who  had  known 
nothing  of  life  outside  of  a  central  New  York  village 
and  a  frontier  army  post ;  clever  enough  to  learn,  possi- 
bly, if  she  had  the  chance,  but  Cassie  had  already  learned. 
Cassie  would  be  in  her  element  anywhere,  could  be  relied 
on  to  say  and  do  the  right  thing,  would  always  be  a  help 
to  him.  Give  him  Cassie.  Dick  was  welcome  to  the 
Beauty. 

And  so  the  little  fear  passed  away  from  Cassie  and  her 
wedding  day  was  not  shadowed  by  any  misgiving.   .    .    . 

On  the  evening  of  that  day,  after  the  newly  married 
pair  had  left  and  the  house  was  quiet,  Dick  had  the  long 
talk  with  his  father  for  which  there  had  hitherto  been  no 
opportunity.  He  was  anxious  about  his  father,  wanted 
to  find  out  the  cause  of  his  changed  looks  and  manner, 
but  was  unwilling  to  ask  questions.  They  were  sitting  in 
front  of  the  fire  in  the  library,  saying  little,  from  time  to 
time  flicking  the  ashes  of  their  cigars  on  the  hearth.  Pres- 
ently Peter  Maiden,  with  a  gesture  of  decision,  tossed  his 
cigar  stump  back  of  the  logs  and  turning,  faced  his  son. 

"Dick,"  he  said,  "I've  made  a  damn  fool  of  myself." 

Dick  took  his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  and  held  it 
between  his  fingers.  "I  don't  see  you  doing  that,"  he 
said,  his  eyes  meeting  his  father's  with  friendly  sympathy. 
"But  I've  seen  that  something  worries  you,  and  if  you 
don't  mind  telling  me " 

"It's  due  to  you  to  tell  you.  I've  tangled  up  my  money 
matters  pretty  badly." 

He  tapped  the  arm  of  his  chair  with  his  big  fingers 
and  Dick  pushed  the  cigar  box  within  easier  reach. 


272  Isabel  Stirling 

"You  see,"  Peter  Maiden  went  on,  "when  Farrell  put 
this  university  in  one  of  the  most  unget-atable  places 
in  the  State — Simeon  Farrell's  a  wonderful  man,  Disk. 
Perfectly  unselfish,  way  up  in  the  skies  with  his  plans 
to  help  all  the  poor  young  men  in  the  world,  but  not 
very  practical.  I'm  not  very  practical  either,  it  seems. 
You  know  I  really  got  rich  more  or  less  incidentally. 
Simeon  Farrell's  a  man  I  love,  and  I  wanted  to  help. 
I'd  helped  with  the  charter  and  other  things.  So  when 
we  got  the  town  bonded  and  taxed  up  to  its  eyes  for 
these  three  branch  railways  Farrell  took  a  lot  of  the 
bonds.  I  took  a  lot  of  'em  too— not  so  many  as  Farrell, 
but  a  lot.  He  sold  out  his  good  investments.  So  did  I. 
He  borrowed  money  to  finish  the  railroad  he  had  pledged 
himself  to  finish  and  I  followed  suit.  Seemed  as  if  we 
had  to  get  the  job  done.  Well — "  He  threw  out  his 
hands  and  let  them  drop  heavily — "I'm  likely  to  die  a 
poor  man." 

"Poor  or  not,"  said  Dick  heartily,  "I'm  proud  to  be 
your  son.  As  to  the  money,  I  don't  see  why  it  won't 
work  out  all  right  in  time." 

"Not  in  time  for  me,  Dick.  I'm  a  sick  man."  He  put 
out  his  hand  and  took  a  cigar  from  the  box,  saying  as 
he  cut  off  the  end  of  it,  "Doctor  says  I  smoke  too  much, 
but  what  difference  does  it  make?"  He  held  the  cigar 
unlighted  in  his  fingers.  "The  thing  that  torments  me 
is  that  I've  been  so  damned  unfair  to  you  and  Cassie. 
I  hadn't  any  right " 

"You  had  every  right,"  said  Dick  firmly.  "You  have 
been  more  than  generous  to  Cassie  and  me.  You  gave 
her  just  what  you  gave  me,  and  I  have  my  profession. 
I  owe  you  that  too.  So  now  you'll  just  let  me  give  you 
back  the  money  you  gave  me  after  I  was  married.  I've 
four  out  of  the  five  thousand  too  that  you  gave  me  when 
I  came  and  told  you  I  was  going  to  be  married.  I  in- 
vested it — and  it's  at  your  disposal  with  the  rest." 

"Good  Lord,  boy,  no!"  exclaimed  his  father.  He 
lighted  his  cigar  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "Thank 
the  Lord,  I -did  give  you  both  something.     I've  enough 


Isabel  Stirling  273 

to  live  on  and  pay  my  interest,  but  there'll  be  an  ungodly 
amount  of  claims  on  my  estate.  And  I  meant  to  leave 
you  rich." 

"We  don't  want  to  be  rich.  And  at  least,  won't  you 
come  back  with  Isabel  and  me?  We'd  love  to  have  you 
—both  of  us." 

"Thank  you,  Dick.  I  like  to  believe  you  would — both 
of  you.  I'm  fond  of  your  Isabel.  She's  the  right  stuff. 
But  no,  Dick,  I  couldn't  do  that.  And  your  Aunt  Mary 
will  stay  here  for  a  while." 

"Wouldn't  your  health  be  better  for  a  change?" 

"Oh,  my  health.  Well — perhaps  Brenton  gives  me 
the  dark  side  in  hopes  of  scaring  me  into  following  his 
trumpery  rules.  Anyway,  I've  had  a  pretty  good  time. 
Lord !  When  I  think  what  I  started  from  and  how  I've 
got  on!  But  mind  you,  Dick,  there  was  good  stuff  back 
of  us,  even  if  it  wasn't  aristocratic,"  He  drew  a  long 
breath.  "Now  that  I've  got  this  off  my  mind,  I  believe 
I'll  cheat  Brenton  and  get  well  and  leave  you  and  Cassie 
a  pot  of  money  yet." 

"What  does  he  say  is  the  matter?" 

"Oh— he  talks.  It's  all  right.  Let's  go  to  bed.  It's 
been  a  long  day."  He  pulled  himself  out  of  his  arm- 
chair and  stood  up. 

"Father,"  said  Dick,  standing  in  front  of  him.  "Sup- 
pose I  resign  my  commission  and  work  here  with  you 
to  get  you  out  of  this  financial  mess.  I  think  I  could  be 
a  help." 

Peter  Maiden  turned  on  him  sternly.  "Not  a  word 
more  of  that,  Dick.  I  thank  God  you  have  your  pro- 
fession and  are  a  credit  to  the  country  which  has 
trained  you  for  its  work.  Your  country  educated  you. 
Peter  Maiden,  rich  as  he  was  then,  didn't  do  it.  And 
it's  to  your  country  you  owe  yourself.  Good-night, 
Dick.  And  God  bless  you,  my  boy,  for  being  willing 
to  sacrifice  yourself." 

When  Dick  went  to  his  room  after  saying  good-night 
to  his  father,  he  found  Isabel,  wrapped  in  a  pink  dress- 


274  Isabel  Stirling 

ing  gown,  sitting  on  the  sofa  under  the  gaslight,  with 
a  book  on  her  lap. 

"Why  did  you  stay  up?"  he  asked;  adding,  "but  I'm 
glad  you  did." 

"I  thought  you  would  be.  I  knew  you'd  want  to  talk 
before  you  went  to  sleep." 

He  sat  down  beside  her  and  told  her  all  that  he  had 
learned  about  his  father's  affairs  and  his  anxiety  about 
his  father's  health.  "Of  course  I'll  see  Brenton  to- 
morrow," he  said. 

She  listened  sympathetically,  her  hand  in  his.  "It  was 
splendid  of  him,"  she  said,  "even  if  it  wasn't  practical. 
And  of  course  you  couldn't  do  anything  but  offer  to 
give  him  back  the  money  he  gave  you." 

"I  knew  you'd  agree  with  me,"  said  Dick.  "And  when 
I  told  him  I'd  resign  from  the  army  and  come  here  to 
help  pull  him  through " 

"Dick!"  She  straightened  herself  with  a  gasp,  pull- 
ing her  hand  away  with  a  jerk.  The  blood  rushed  to  her 
cheeks  and  she  gazed  at  him  with  incredulous,  indignant 
eyes.    "But  you  couldn't " 

"Yes,  I  thought  I  ought.  I  owe  him  all  I  can  do  for 
him." 

"Even  to  giving  up  your  career !"  She  spoke  with  a 
bitterness  which  was  lost  on  him,  absorbed  as  he  was  in 
the  thought  of  his  father. 

"If  necessary,"  he  said  simply. 

"And  I  — oh!"  She  choked  down  tears  of  angry  dis- 
may. "You  simply  can't!  Give  him  the  money,  of 
course,  but  not " 

But  not  our  lives,  was  what  she  would  have  said,  but 
Dick  stopped  her. 

"He  wouldn't  have  it.  He  was  just  as  cross  with  me 
as  you  are.  Said  the  Government  had  educated  me  and 
I  belonged  to  the  country  and  hadn't  any  right  to  think 
of  leaving  the  service.  He  was  tremendously  fine  about 
it — and  I  know  just  what  it  would  mean  to  have  me 
here." 

They  were  tears  of  relief  now,  and  she  let  them  fall. 


Isabel  Stirling  275 

"Oh,  he  was — he  was  fine,"  she  said.  Her  voice  broke. 
"And  you  were  fine  too,  Dick.  But  oh,  don't  think  of 
doing  it,  for  I — I'm  the  only  one  among  you  that  isn't 
fine,  and  I  couldn't  bear  it !" 

But  still  Dick  did  not  realize  that  it  was  for  herself 
that  she  couldn't  bear  it. 


LIV 

When,  on  the  following  Sunday  morning,  Isabel  went 
to  St.  James's  with  Dick  and  his  father,  she  reflected 
with  some  surprise  that  it  was  the  first  time  they  had 
ever  been  to  church  together.  At  their  present  post  they 
had  no  chaplain  and  before  that,  directly  after  they 
were  married,  she  had  enjoyed  her  emancipated  Sundays 
too  much  to  care  to  curtail  her  pleasure  in  them.  Dick 
had  gone  occasionally,  compelled,  she  thought,  by  a  feel- 
ing that  to  put  in  an  appearance  now  and  then  was  part 
of  his  job.  Now  she  went  with  a  little  of  the  excitement 
of  tasting  forbidden  fruit.  How  disapproving  some  of 
her  father's  former  parishioners  would  be!  Then  her 
memory  went  back  to  the  time  when  she  had  driven  with 
Margaret  to  the  little  church  in  the  village  near  Morning- 
ton.  How  the  service  had  thrilled  her  that  day!  She 
remembered  the  little  prayer  book,  with  the  Latin  prayer 
penciled  in  Margaret's  handwriting  on  the  flyleaf. 

The  service  did  not  exactly  thrill  her  now,  but  she 
liked  it;  and  she  liked  Dr.  Harrison,  who  must  be  for- 
ever associated  with  the  greatest  day  of  her  life.  As  to 
Dr.  Harrison's  sermon,  she  did  not  find  it  interesting, 
but  she  could  always  practise  her  old  trick  of  keeping 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  preacher,  while  detaching  her  mind 
so  completely  as  not  to  hear  a  word  that  he  said.  To-day 
she  was  wondering  what  Dick  really  thought  about  re- 
ligion, a  subject  which  they  seldom  mentioned.  Not 
that  they  avoided  it,  but  it  didn't  seem  to  come  in.  She 
had,  to  be  sure,  told  him  about  her  early  experiences  and 
how  religion  had  been  made  a  bugbear  to  her  all  her 
life,  and  he  had  listened  with  sympathy  and  indignation, 
but  had  apparently  had  nothing  of  any  sort  to  tell  about 
himself  in  that  connection.  Now  she  wondered.  Later, 
she  said  to  him: 

276 


Isabel  Stirling  277 

"Does  religion  mean  anything  to  you,  Dick?  You 
weren't  taught  to  hate  it,  but  is  it  a  thing  you  ever  think 
about?" 

"Why/'  said  Dick,  taken  by  surprise  and  searching  his 
mind  to  find  out  what  he  did  think,  "of  course  it  means 
something.  Aunt  Mary  used  to  tell  us  Bible  stories  when 
we  were  kids — and  then  there  was  Christmas.  I  think 
we  were  quite  religious  about  Christmas  time.  As  to 
thinking  about  it  now,  I  don't  suppose  I  do,  very  often." 

"But  you  believe  in  God,  and  Heaven  and  Hell?" 

"Well  now,  I  just  don't  believe  in  any  everlasting  Hell 
— perhaps  a  temporary  one  when  necessary — but  an  ever- 
lasting Hell  would  be  too  darned  unfair.  Yes,  I  believe 
in  some  kind  of  Heaven,  and  surely  I  believe  in  a  God. 
But  Isabel,  I  doubt  if  I  know  many  more  answers  to 
your  catechism." 

"But  just  this — I  know  very  well  you  don't  believe  in 
my  father's  kind  of  God.  But  does  your  kind  that  you 
don't  often  think  about,  have  any  sort  of  effect  on  you?" 

Dick  reflected  a  moment  before  he  answered.  Then  he 
said:  "I  suppose  it's  mostly  indirect  and  unconscious, 
but  after  all — I  think  perhaps  the  knowledge  that  there's 
a — Critic — and  perhaps — an  Encourager,  would  make  it 
a  little  harder  not  to  be  a  decent  sort  of  chap." 

"I  see.  It's  just  whether  you  have  the  standard  set 
up  for  you,  or  whether  you  set  it  up  for  yourself. 
Whether  somebody  outside  of  you  approves  or  disap- 
proves, or  whether  you  like  yourself  a  little  more  or 
a  good  deal  less.  One  thing  is  quite  certain.  You  live 
up  to  your  standard  better  than  I  live  up  to  mine." 

"What  nonsense!" 

"Oh,  Dick!    It's  good  for  the  soul  to  live  with  you." 

She  sighed  and  wished  she  could  be  as  unselfish  as 
he  and  as  free  from  self-consciousness.  She  was  ashamed 
of  her  anger  at  his  willingness  to  sacrifice  himself — 
and  her — for  his  father,  yet  knew  she  would  be  still 
angry  if  he  had  had  to  do  it. 

After  all,  however,  seriousness  was  not  the  dominant 
note  of  her  visit.    There  were  many  pleasures,  much  re- 


278  Isabel  Stirling 

newing  of  old  ties.  It  seemed  like  going  to  a  home  of 
her  own  when  she  went  to  Dr.  Brenton's  house. 

"It's  so  good  to  have  you  for  an  uncle,"  she  said  to 
him  one  day.  "It's  such  a  thoroughly  nice  relationship. 
Why  didn't  we  begin  when  I  was  little  ?  You  don't  know 
how  I  needed  an  uncle  then." 

Dr.  Brenton  sighed  and  then  smiled.  "It  wasn't  my 
fault,"  he  said.  "Your  Aunt  Eliza  was  the  only  woman 
I  ever  wanted  to  marry,  and  she  wouldn't  have  me." 

"Oh!"  cried  Isabel.  She  went  over  to  him,  as  he  sat 
in  his  chair  facing  her,  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 
"How  could  she  not  want  you?" 

"She  did,  rather,  at  one  time,"  said  the  doctor  dryly, 
"but  her  creed,  backed  up  rather  vigorously  by  William 
Stirling,  decided  her  against  me.  I  was  regarded  as  an 
Unbeliever.  And  there  is  a  Scriptural  command,  more 
effective  then  than  now,  not  to  be  "unequally  yoked." 

"I  can  hardly  imagine  it  of  Aunt  Eliza,  strict  as  she 
was.  She  certainly  wasn't  as  rigid  as  that  in  those  last 
years.  And  she  trusted  you  more  than  she  did  Father 
when  she  gave  you  charge  of  the  money  for  me.  I  wish 
you  had  known  her  better  then.  Oh,  it's  a  shame — poor 
Aunt  Eliza!"  The  sharpness  of  her  sympathy  for  them 
both  brought  the  tears  to  Isabel's  eyes. 

"Well — it's  all  irrevocable  now.  And  you  are  my 
dear  niece." 

The  adoptive  relationship  was  thenceforth  more  tender 
than  ever.  And  there  were  other  pleasures.  There  were 
long  delightful  hours  with  Mrs.  Gifford.  Edmund  still 
lived  at  home,  to  the  infinite  satisfaction  of  his  parents. 
He  liked  women's  society  and  was  a  petted  guest  in  many 
houses,  but  showed  no  inclination  to  marry.  He  was  a 
full  professor  now,  at  the  head  of  his  department,  and 
had  recently  published  a  book  of  clever  essays,  comments 
on  life,  spiced  with  wit  and  amiable  malice.  The  critics 
praised  it. 

"There's  no  money  in  such  a  book,"  said  Mrs.  Gifford, 
"but  then  Edmund  needn't  mind  that  and  can  write  to 
please  himself." 


Isabel  Stirling  279 

The  Giffords  gave  a  dinner  for  her  and  she  was  placed 
at  Judge  Gifford's  right  hand,  and  he  talked  to  her  with 
an  intelligent  interest  in  army  life  and  army  work,  and 
in  the  Indian  question,  so  vital  to  these  keepers  of  the 
outposts,  so  indifferently  regarded  by  the  dwellers  in  a 
country  town  in  central  New  York. 

"It's  you  army  people  who  have  to  pay  for  the  Govern- 
ment's mistakes  with  the  Indians,"  he  said. 

After  dinner  Edmund  sat  down  by  her  and  told  her  all 
the  university  news  and  was  caustic  about  the  admission 
of  "co-eds."  She  laughed  at  him  and  pretended  to  regret 
that  she  could  not  have  been  a  co-ed  herself.  When  she 
told  him  that  she  had  not  yet  seen  his  book  he  promised 
to  give  her  a  copy. 

"With  your  name  written  in  it,"  she  stipulated. 

"Certainly — although  you  hardly  deserve  it,"  he  said. 
"You  never  did  anything  like  that  for  me." 

She  blushed  furiously  and  had  no  reply  ready. 

"Are  you  writing  an  army  story?"  he  asked,  with  a 
sly  smile. 

"What  an  absurd  idea!"  She  glanced  hastily  around 
to  make  sure  that  no  one  was  listening  to  them.    .    .    . 

She  went,  one  day,  to  see  her  old  friends,  the  Boyds, 
and  recalled  with  secret  merriment  her  make-believe  at 
being  their  sister.  Oh,  if  she  could  only  tell  them!  If 
only  she  could  own  up  to  the  book! 

Amy  Boyd  had  three  children  now  and  looked  haggard 
and  shabby.  She  worked  very  hard  and  the  Professor 
apparently  spent  all  his  evenings  alone  in  his  study.  Amy 
held  the  baby  on  her  lap  while  they  talked.  She  was 
affectionate,  but  preoccupied.  Isabel  began  to  feel  that 
they  hadn't  much  in  common. 

"Do  you  remember  Mrs.  Henderson?"  asked  Amy 
suddenly.  "She  died  last  year.  I  suppose  she  really  died 
of  fatigue  and  discouragement.  Do  you  remember  that 
day  when  she  said  that  a  professor  ought  to  marry  his 
cook?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  it  very  well." 

"And  how  mad  I  got?    And  how  I  was  going  to  show 


280  Isabel  Stirling 

them  'the  marriage  of  true  minds'  ?  Well — she  was  right. 
A  man  like  my  husband  can't  let  his  mind  be  married. 
It's  got  to  work  alone.  And  his  body  has  got  to  be  fed 
and  made  comfortable,  and  its  needs — all  its  needs,  suffi- 
ciently satisfied  for  him  to  forget  it  when  it  needs  to  be 
forgotten.  Which  is  most  of  the  time.  Of  course,  if 
they  have  no  children — that  was  one  of  Mrs.  Henderson's 
alternatives.  But  after  all — "  she  looked  thoughtfully 
at  the  baby  on  her  lap— "after  all,  Isabel,  if  a  woman 
doesn't  have  children,  what's  the  use  of  her,  except  just 
to  cook?" 

"I  suppose,"  said  Isabel,  feeling  very  inadequate,  "that 
they  do  pay  for  themselves."  She,  too,  looked  at  the 
baby,  which  was  a  healthy  specimen,  but  not  particularly 
attractive. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  as  a  matter  of  affection,"  said  Amy 
scornfully,  "but  as  a  matter  of  significance.  When  I  die, 
I  shall  have  meant  something.  If  only  they  turn  out 
well." 

"Amy,"  said  Isabel,  "can't  you  ever  have  any  good 
times?    Don't  you  want  to?" 

"Of  course  I  want  to,"  flashed  Amy.  "I'm  a  human 
woman — and  I'm  young.  But  there  isn't  any  money  for 
good  servants  and  enough  of  them,  and  without  them 
I've  no  strength  left  for  amusement — not  to  speak  of 
money  for  decent  clothes." 

Isabel  thought  of  certain  hard- worked  army  women 
with  an  overplus  of  children  and  decided  that  they  had 
a  much  better  time  of  it  than  professors'  wives.  In  spite 
of  hard  journeys  there  was  some  relief  in  moving  on, 
and  they  got  some  fun  as  they  went  along.  And  always 
they  were  automatically  moving  up  in  the  scale.  There 
seemed  no  certainty  of  promotion  in  civil  life,  and  much 
less  amusement  to  be  had  without  spending  money. 

How  these  scenes  and  people  recalled  the  Book!  In 
the  stirring  experiences  of  the  last  year  and  a  half  she 
had  seldom  thought  of  it.  Now  she  felt  again  that  she 
would  like  to  tell  Dick  about  it.  It  seemed  the  queerest 
thing  in  the  world  that  she  had  not  yet  told  him.    One 


Isabel  Stirling  281 

rainy  day  when  they  were  sitting  in  the  library  and  Peter 
Maiden  was  shut  up  in  his  little  office  at  the  end  of  the 
hall,  she  looked  along  the  bookshelves  for  a  copy  which 
she  remembered  having  seen  there.  Having  found  it, 
she  took  it  out,  flicked  off  the  dust  and  carried  it  over 
to  Dick. 

"Did  you  ever  read  this?,,  she  asked. 

He  took  the  book  and  glanced  at  the  title.  "Don't  think 
so.    Why?" 

"Everybody  here  was  reading  it  at  one  time." 

"I  wasn't  here,  I  suppose.  I  don't  think  I  ever  heard 
of  it." 

She  felt  unreasonably  disconcerted.  "It  was  supposed 
to  be  a  story  of  Ptolemy,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation. 

"That  sounds  interesting."  He  opened  it  at  the  first 
chapter. 

Yes,  she  would  let  him  read  it  before  she  told.  He 
lighted  a  pipe,  settled  back  in  his  chair  and  began  to 
read.  She  waited,  pretending  to  be  interested  in  a  maga- 
zine. Dick  seemed  absorbed,  but  made  no  comments. 
She  had  hoped  that  he  would  speak  of  anything  that 
struck  him.  He  read  all  the  afternoon.  At  dusk  he  had 
not  finished,  but  he  laid  the  book  down  and  lighted  a  fresh 
pipe.     IsabeL  still  waited. 

"Does  anyone  know  who  wrote  it?"  he  asked.  "I  don't 
suppose  the  name  on  the  title  page  means  anything." 

It  was  on  the  end  of  her  tongue  to  say — I  wrote  it — 
but  she  checked  herself.  First  let  him  say  what  he 
thought  of  it. 

"I  believe  not,"  she  said  demurely.  "I  don't  think  it 
has  ever  been  known." 

"No,  it  wouldn't  be  apt  to  be  acknowledged." 

"Why?    Don't  you  like  it?" 

"It  hits  out  considerably  at  university  management. 
I  dare  say  it  was  all  true  but  it  mightn't  have  been  quite 
safe,  if  it  was  written  by  anyone  on  the  inside,  as  I  dare 
say  it  was.  It  sounds  as  if  some  professor's  wife  had 
tried  to  get  even." 


282  Isabel  Stirling 

Isabel's  cheeks  burned.  "Do  you  think  the  charac- 
ters are  portraits  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  can  see  a  couple.  Probably  there  are  more.  I  don't 
know  people  here  so  very  well.,, 

He  picked  up  the  book  again,  looked  at  the  date,  then 
turned  over  some  of  the  leaves.  Isabel  saw  him  grin  as 
he  stopped  to  read  a  page.  She  got  up,  sauntered  over 
to  him  and  stood  behind  his  chair.  He  was  reading  one 
of  the  passages  where  Lydia  figured.  He  shut  the  book 
quickly  and  she  went  and  sat  down  again. 

"But  aside  from  portraits,  how  do  you  like  it?  What 
do  you  think  of  it  ?"    Her  tone  was  carefully  indifferent. 

"Oh,  it's  amusing  in  spots — cleverish.  It's  as  if  a 
bright  woman  sat  down  and  hit  off  the  people  around 
her — not  very  goodnaturedly.  I  hate  ill-nature,  and  so 
I  don't  care  very  much  for  the  book." 

Cleverish!  She  had  been  prepared  to  confess  her 
naughtiness,  but — cleverish ! 

"The  book  sold  very  well.  There  were  some  good 
reviews  of  it,"  she  said,  in  a  subdued  tone. 

"I  suppose  a  book  of  that  kind  would  sell  well  just  at 
that  time,"  said  Dick,  knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 
"It's  readable.  Farrell  University  was  new  and  there 
were  enough  people  down  on  it  to  be  amused  by  a  book 
that  showed  up  its  weak  points.  I  can  understand  that. 
And  after  all,  I'm  no  critic.  I  simply  don't  care  much 
for  it  myself.  But  then,  I  don't  care  for  lots  of  things 
that  my  betters  like." 

Isabel  picked  up  the  book  and  started  toward  the  book- 
case. "It's  ages  since  I  read  it  myself,"  she  said,  pausing 
in  the  act  of  returning  it  to  its  place.  "I  think  I'll  look 
at  it  again.    Do  you  know  it's  almost  dinner-time?" 

"That's  a  fact,"  said  Dick,  glancing  at  the  clock.  "I'll 
get  a  breath  of  air  before  dinner.     Want  to  come?" 

"It's  raining  too  hard."  She  tried  not  to  make  her 
tone  curt. 

She  watched  him  as  he  put  on  his  storm-coat  and  went 
out,  and  then  went  slowly  upstairs  with  the  book  in  her 
hand.    Tell  Dick?    Never! 


Isabel  Stirling  283 

At  her  first  opportunity  she  read  it,  slowly,  carefully. 
Her  eyes  were  opened  to  a  thousand  defects  and  crude- 
nesses.  She  saw  too  that  her  youthful  indignation  at 
what  she  was  told  were  mistakes  and  injustices  in  uni- 
versity management  might  strike  Dick  as  ill-natured,  and 
even  that  she  might  have  been  ill-informed  and  unjust  in 
some  instances — but  not  in  all.  But  it  was  a  new  idea 
to  her  that  she  had  played  into  the  hands  of  the  enemies 
of  the  university.  Not  that  it  made  any  difference.  The 
university  was  not  to  be  hurt  by  her  pygmy  blows. 

But  her  portrait  of  Lydia!  That,  she  saw,  was  un- 
pardonable. She  told  herself  scornfully  that  it  was  not 
only  a  hateful,  but  a  common  thing  to  do.  But — it  wasn't 
"cleverish,"  that  portrait.  It  was  dreadfully  clever.  A 
thrill  of  exultation  shot  through  her  shame  and  remorse. 
If  she  was  clever  enough  for  that!   .    .    . 

But  was  it  wrong  to  go  on  keeping  the  thing  a  secret 
from  Dick?  She  hated  having  a  secret  from  him.  More 
and  more,  she  was  getting  into  the  way  of  thinking  aloud 
with  him,  no  matter  whether  he  always  understood  or 
not.  She  did  not  want  to  tell  him  this.  Therefore, 
said  her  inherited  puritanism,  probably  she  ought  to. 
With  an  effort  she  put  puritanism  away  from  her.  Would 
Dick  rather  icnow  or  not  ?  Wasn't  the  telling  going  to 
be  as  unpleasant  for  him  as  for  her?  He  would  be  sorry 
he  had  said  what  he  did  about  the  book,  and  yet  he  would 
have  to  stick  to  it.  He  would  be  still  sorrier  that  she 
had  written  it,  and  horribly  shocked  at  her  for  having 
put  Lydia  into  it.  He  might  grin  at  somebody  else's 
portrait  of  her,  but  that  was  different.  No,  Dick  would 
not  be  proud  of  her.  Possibly  it  might  be  better  for  her 
own  soul  to  confess  and  show  him  her  meanness,  but  she 
doubted  whether  it  would  be  better  for  him.  He  would 
wish  she  hadn't  told  him. 

Perhaps  she  was  wrong.  Perhaps  she  was  weakly 
sparing  herself.  Perhaps  he  would  find  it  out  some  day, 
and  then  it  would  be  better  to  have  told  him.  She  didn't 
know.  The  only  thing  she  really  did  know  was  that  it 
would  be  pleasanter  for  Dick  not  to  be  told ;  and  so  she 


284  Isabel  Stirling 

would  take  the  risk  of  his  finding  out,  and  bear  the 
burden  of  keeping  a  secret  from  him. 

But  reading  the  book  over  had  aroused  her  writing 
instinct.  She  longed  to  be  at  it  again  and  wondered 
why  she  had  not  felt  that  way  before;  although,  to  be 
sure,  life  had  been,  so  far,  pretty  full.  But  there  was 
going  to  be  so  much  time  out  at  the  post,  and  how  she 
would  love  to  write  a  novel  of  army  life.  But  she  would 
not  conceal  anything  from  Dick,  and  he  would  not  like 
it  at  all,  no  matter  with  what  affection  she  treated  her 
subject  nor  how  impersonal  she  tried  to  be.  It  would 
be  sure  to  strike  him  as  being  in  the  nature  of  the  army 
gossip  that  he  hated.  No,  she  would  have  to  find  some 
other  subject,  and  even  then,  she  doubted  whether  he 
would  be  in  sympathy.  And  he  might  even  suspect  her 
of  this  first  disastrous  book.  It  would  hardly  be  safe. 
She  sighed  with  vexation,  then  told  herself  that,  after 
all,  one  couldn't  have  everything;  and,  having  Dick, 
surely  she  had  the  best  that  life  could  give. 


LV 

Three  years  more  of  Arizona,  years  marked  by  the 
change  from  a  log  cabin  to  a  low  adobe  house,  as  B  Troop 
moved  from  one  hot  post  to  another,  but  otherwise  much 
the  same  in  the  orderly  routine  of  garrison  life.  They 
were  years  in  which  Isabel  seemed  almost  to  forget  that 
she  had  ever  lived  any  other  life  than  the  one  punctuated 
by  the  morning  and  evening  gun  and  the  bugle  calls.  She 
adapted  herself  easily  to  the  makeshift  existence  of  the 
frontier  post,  learned  to  do  without  the  appurtenances 
of  civilization,  and  to  make  light  of  the  loss  and  breakage 
of  the  household  gods  which  she  had  so  recently  learned 
to  adore,  grew  hardened  to  the  publicity  of  sleeping  on 
the  parade  ground  when  the  little  houses  were  too  hot 
to  be  endured,  and  spent  many  a  night  under  the  stars, 
sleeping  or  waking,  as  the  case  might  be. 

It  was  a  life  quickened  by  the  sense  of  danger;  a 
danger  whicfi  her  spirit  could  face  when  she  shared  it, 
as,  on  some  of  their  journeys  through  a  country  infested 
by  hostile  Indians,  she  had  to  do,  but  before  which  she 
quailed  when  Dick  went  off  on  expeditions  to  hunt  up 
and  drive  back  those  Indians  who  forsook  the  reserva- 
tion for  the  warpath,  leaving  her  in  the  idleness  and 
safety  of  the  post,  to  eat  her  heart  out  with  anxiety  until 
his  return.  But  through  it  all,  she  more  and  more  loved 
the  life,  with  all  its  uncertainties  and  discomforts.  More 
and  more  she  thrilled  to  the  sound  of  the  bugle  and  the 
sight  of  the  soldiers.  Guard  mounting  and  dress  parade, 
all  the  recurring  spectacles  of  each  day,  never  ceased  to 
touch  a  responsive  nerve.  For  there  was  nothing  about 
it  which  was  merely  spectacular.  Reality  lay  behind  it 
all.  It  angered  her  to  think  how  little  people  back  in 
the  east  realized  the  grim  seriousness  of  a  soldier's  bust- 

285 


286  Isabel  Stirling 

ness  in  the  Indian  country ;  how  little  indeed,  they  honored 
him  when  he  fell  in  some  obscure  combat;  a  combat 
brought  on,  very  possibly,  by  a  policy  of  which  she  saw 
clearly  the  injustice  or  the  folly.  Truly,  there  was  no 
glory  in  Indian  warfare.  She  learned  to  say  bitterly,  as 
other  army  women  have  said  before  and  since:  "Nobody 
cares !" 

Perhaps  nothing  so  much  as  this  recurring  danger 
would  have  so  kept  alive  the  romance  of  her  love  for 
her  husband.  Those  ever-dreaded  perils  kept  its  first 
freshness  untarnished.  There  had  not  been  any  further 
promise  of  children,  but  as  yet,  in  their  youth  and  their 
enjoyment  of  comradeship  the  more  intimate  because 
thus  uninterrupted,  neither  of  them  could  feel  that  they 
missed  anything.  And  how  well  they  learned  to  know 
each  other!  With  a  knowledge  which,  it  seemed,  pre- 
cluded all  possibility  of  future  misunderstanding. 

In  these  days  Isabel  learned  to  know  and  love  her  army 
comrades;  the  group  of  women  who,  with  indomitable 
pluck,  met  the  emergencies  of  each  day  as  it  came,  putting 
yesterday  behind  them,  and  taking  to-morrow's  chances 
philosophically.  She  had  her  own  place  among  them 
now,  as  she  had  never  had  it  when  Lily  stood  between, 
with  Her  half  malicious,  half  unconscious  mischief- 
making. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  came  the  news  of  Peter 
Maiden's  fatal  illness  and  the  summons  home.  There 
was  the  hurried  start  and  the  long  journey  which  could 
not  be  hurried  and  seemed  to  their  impatience  beset  with 
even  more  vexations  and  delays  than  usually  befell.  Peter 
Maiden  was  dead  when  they  at  last  arrived. 

Dick  felt  his  father's  death  very  much,  but  seemed, 
more  than  all,  to  feel  for  him  the  disappointments  and 
the  cloud  of  depression  which  had  made  an  old  man 
of  him  and  shortened  his  life.  That  there  should  be  little 
to  inherit  seemed  to  him  a  small  matter.  Isabel  thought 
of  her  own  father  and  of  his  harsh  judgment  of  this 
other  man  who,  after  all,  had  been  able  to  gain  and  keep 
the  love  of  his  children.    She  shook  her  head  when  Mrs. 


Isabel  Stirling  287 

Gifford  asked  if  she  would  not,  this  time,  try  to  see 
her  father. 

"Dick's  father  was  mine  too,"  she  said,  "and  Father 
hated  him."  A  moment  after,  she  added;  "I  wrote  to 
Father  once — but  he  never  answered." 

In  spite  of  their  sorrow,  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see  Cassie 
again  and  to  realize  how  happy  her  marriage  was.  They 
all  spent  some  time  together  in  the  old  Lansing  house, 
and  then,  Dick's  leave  being  up  and  the  necessary  business 
transacted,  as  far  as  was  possible  for  the  time,  they 
bade  each  other  good-bye,  and  Dick  and  Isabel  started 
westward. 

Sadness  hung  over  them  through  all  the  tiresome 
journey  on  the  railway,  but  when  they  alighted  at  their 
last  station  and  met  the  familiar  ambulance  and  mules 
with  the  friendly  soldier  escort,  and  set  out  on  the  long, 
rough  drive  across  a  country  which  was  none  too  safe, 
their  hearts  lightened,  and  neither  monotony  of  desert 
nor  danger  of  pass  seemed  discouraging  to  them.  They 
were  going  to  their  own  life  again. 

They  were  going,  moreover,  with  another  promotion 
to  cheer  them.  Owing  to  one  or  two  sudden  deaths  and 
resignations  among  the  older  officers  of  the  regiment 
everybody  went  up  several  files  and  Dick  became  a 
captain  before  he  could  reasonably  have  expected  it. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  ask  nothing  better  of 
life  than  to  be  captain  of  B  Troop. 


LVI 

From  the  burning  sands  of  Arizona  to  the  wind-swept 
snows  of  the  great  northwest  country;  from  the  desert 
dryness  to  the  great  river  lying  frozen  below  the  bluff; 
from  the  adobe  house,  with  its  thick  walls,  to  the  slightly 
built  shack  of  unseasoned  lumber;  from  a  hundred  and 
twenty  degrees  above  zero  to  forty  degrees  below.  Also, 
from  tinned  meats  and  butter  melting  in  glass  jars  to  a 
larder  hung  full  of  game.  All  this,  with  a  preparation 
no  longer  than  the  time  required  to  pack  boxes  and  bar- 
rels and  set  out  on  the  journey. 

Isabel  had  thought  that  she  could  never  find  fault  with 
any  degree  of  cold,  but  when  she  shivered  beside  her 
fire  of  green  wood,  or  took  her  short  walk  in  front  of 
the  quarters  in  a  canon  shoveled  out  through  snowdrifts 
so  high  that  she  could  not  see  over  them,  and  had  to 
hurry  back  to  the  house  lest  nose  and  cheeks  should  be 
frozen,  she  almost  wished  for  Arizona  again.  Almost, 
but  not  quite. 

"I  will  not  say  I  like  to  be  frozen  because  I  hate  to 
be  burned,"  she  declared.  "I  feel  at  liberty  to  dislike 
discomfort  in  any  form." 

But  it  was  pleasant  to  get  to  a  large  post  again,  with 
Colonel  Raynor  in  command;  and  the  old  band,  which 
they  had  left  behind  when  they  went  to  Arizona,  was 
good  to  hear.  There  were  lively  hops  every  Saturday 
night;  and  there  was  much  music  between  times. 

Troop  C  had  come  with  the  rest,  and  of  course  that 
meant  the  Hazeltons.  Isabel  was  glad  for  Dick,  and 
touched  by  his  happiness  at  having  Frank  with  him  again. 
She  was  even  a  little  pleased  to  see  Lily,  so  insistent 
is  an  old  tie.  Moreover,  they  met  on  a  new  footing. 
Lily  was  a  much  smaller  element  in  her  life  than  she 
had  been  at  the  first  post,  and  could  not,  she  felt,  any 

288 


Isabel  Stirling  289 

longer  come  between  her  and  other  people.  And  she 
was  welcome  to  dance  with  Dick  as  often  as  she  chose. 
Nobody  in  the  world  could  now  disturb  Isabel  where  he 
was  concerned. 

She  had  now  devised  her  own  share  in  the  amusement 
of  the  hop  nights.  While  the  others  were  still  dancing 
she  put  away  her  book  and  got  ready  for  them.  They 
were  glad  enough  to  come  through  the  freezing  air  for 
her  good  little  supper.  And  if,  sometimes,  the  hours 
dragged  before  she  heard  the  sound  of  their  hilarious 
voices  as  they  came  along  the  snow-packed  walk;  and 
if  she  still  longed  for  the  forbidden  pleasure,  the  sting 
of  the  deprivation  was  drawn  by  a  remark  which  her 
husband  happened  to  make  in  her  hearing.  Someone 
had  repeated  the  banal  old  saying  about  women's  stand- 
ard of  honor;  that  it  was  different  from  men's;  that 
they  did  not  live  up  to  their  engagements. 

"Not  the  woman  I  know  best,"  Dick  had  said  quickly. 
"My  wife  doesn't  know  how  to  break  a  promise,  even 
when  she  made  it  before  she  knew  what  it  meant." 

How  worth  while  it  had  been  after  all! 

And  then,  surprisingly,  the  eight  months'  winter  was 
over.  At  last,  the  spring  actually  came.  Little  by  little, 
the  snow  melted ;  with  many  delays,  many  snow  squalls, 
many  white  patches  in  shady  places — patches  which 
seemed  as  if  they  would  never  be  all  gone.  But  even 
those  discouraging  bits  gradually  receded  at  the  edges 
and  grew  almost  imperceptibly  smaller  until  they  van- 
ished. The  cottonwood  trees,  planted  in  rows  in  front 
of  the  quarters  because  they  grew  so  quickly,  put  out 
their  leaves  and  shaded  the  little  frame  houses  which 
were  at  last  visible  down  to  their  foundations — or  lack 
of  them.  One  could  walk  on  the  board  walk  now ;  and 
along  the  river  bank  were  pleasant  stretches  where  the 
cottonwoods  grew  tall  and  broad  and  made  a  play  of 
light  and  shade,  refreshing  after  the  snow  glare ;  while 
here  and  there  one  found  a  blue  hepatica  peeping  from 
its  fuzzy  gray  calix. 

Isabel  resumed  her  rides  with  elation.     Pat  had  ac- 


290  Isabel  Stirling 

companied  her  in  all  her  changes  of  station,  but  she  had 
not  been  able  to  ride  during  the  long  winter,  and  now 
it  was  delightful  to  find  herself  on  his  back  again.  She 
found,  however,  that  the  rides  must  be  restricted.  Along 
with  the  other  wild  animals,  the  Indians  had  crept  out 
from  their  winter  shelters,  and  they  were  not  all  friendly. 
Every  now  and  then  stories  were  brought  in  of  grisly 
deeds,  and  although  Dick  had  kept  it  from  her  as  far 
as  he  could,  there  were  beginning  to  be  rumors  of  a 
summer  campaign.  She  kept  her  service  revolver  with 
her  riding  clothes  and  took  it  when  she  went  out,  almost 
as  mechanically  as  she  put  on  her  boots. 

Frank  Hazelton  sometimes  joined  them  on  their  rides, 
but  Lily  did  not  often  go.  She  was  discontented  because 
she  could  not  have  such  a  horse  as  she  wished. 

"It's  just  as  well,"  Dick  said  one  time  when  he  and 
Isabel  were  out  by  themselves.  "She's  hard  on  a  horse. 
I'm  sorry  for  both  back  and  mouth  of  any  horse  she 
rides."  The  only  criticism  he  was  ever  known  to  make 
of  Lily  was  of  her  riding. 

Isabel  smiled,  but  not  aloud  did  she  venture  on  the 
comment  that,  as  between  Lily  and  a  horse,  he  put  the 
horse  first.  What  she  did  say  was:  "If  you  had  found 
out  that  I  couldn't  learn  to  manage  a  horse  considerately 
would  you  have  loved  me  still?" 

"That's  nonsense,"  he  replied.  "Might  as  well  ask 
whether  I'd  have  loved  you  if  you  hadn't  been  yourself." 

"But  you  couldn't  know — about  me  and  a  horse." 

"Lots  of  things  I  couldn't  know — nor  you  either — 
but  somehow  we  knew  without  knowing.  It's  a  sort  of 
recognition  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  knowledge." 

Isabel  rode  on  slowly.  For  a  moment  she  said  nothing. 
Then  she  turned  to  him  a  face  touched  with  emotion. 
"I  love  you  very  much  when  you  talk  like  that,  Dick. 
And  I  like  to  think  of  that  spiritual  side  of  love.  How 
can  people " 

"How  can  people — what?" 

"How  can  they  think  it  comes  more  than  once  ?  Oh — 
love  affairs  of  a  sort — yes.     I  don't  mean  that.     But 


Isabel  Stirling  291 

marriage.     How  can  that  come  twice?     And  how  can 

they  marry  without  it?     Or  marry  twice  anyway?" 
"Well,  dear,  let's  hope  we  never  have  a  chance." 
"Live  till  we're  both  a  hundred  and  then  die  together." 

She  spoke  lightly,   but  a  shiver  passed  through  her. 

"Let's  have  a  gallop !" 


LVII 

"I  wonder  what's  the  matter  with  Frank,"  said  Dick. 
"He  looks  haggard  and  sallow,  and  altogether  off.  And 
he's  nervous."  Which  was  as  near  as  Dick  ever  got  to 
admitting  that  Frank  was  sometimes  irritable. 

Isabel  looked  contemplatively  across  the  breakfast 
table.  "One  of  the  many  nice  things  about  you,  Dick," 
she  said,  "is  that  you  are  so  tremendously  good-looking. 
And  the  kind  of  good-looking  that  a  soldier  ought  to  be." 

"Thanks.  I'm  glad  I  make  up  properly  for  the  part." 
He  made  a  grinning  face  at  her  as  he  took  another 
muffin.  "It's  obvious  that  I  should  say  something  nice 
to  you  in  return,  but  I  won't.  You're  spoiled.  The 
Colonel  was  all  struck  of  a  heap  with  you  last  night." 

"Well,  every  woman  ought  to  be  spoiled.  Our  day 
is  short.  I'll  be  saying — My  dears,  I  used  to  look  so- 
and-so,  while  you  will  still  be  as  handsome  as  ever." 

"And  why  not  you?" 

"Because  complexion  doesn't  matter  to  a  man.  Lines 
don't  hurt  his  face  a  bit  and  he  isn't  dependent  on  color- 
ing. When  a  woman  gets  wrinkles  and  loses  her  color 
and  has  to  depend  on  features  and  expression — well, 
about  that  time  she's  a  has-been.  I  think  I  may  be 
tempted  to  make  up,  like — "  She  paused  and  looked  at 
him  with  a  gleam  in  her  eye. 

"Oh,  don't  say  it!     What's  the  use?" 

She  laughed  outright.  "I  won't.  I  don't  need  to. 
I'll  only  say — like  some  women  who  are  young  enough 
to  know  better.  But  I  do  hope  Frank  will  be  all  right 
soon." 

Dick  reflected,  with  knitted  brow.  "I  wonder  if  it's 
money.  I  hope  he  gets  his  captaincy  soon.  You  know 
he  has  nothing  but  his  pay,  and  think  how  much  more 

292 


Isabel  Stirling  293 

we  spend — and  yet  we  think  we  are  living  simply.  I  wish 
— oh,  hang  it !  Frank  oughtn't  to  be  proud  with  me,  but 
he  would  be." 

If  Frank  was  proud,  his  wife  wasn't.  She  would  have 
taken  help  wherever  she  could  get  it.  For  she  was  find- 
ing herself  hard  pressed  in  these  days.  Even  the  slight 
increase  of  pay  which  came  with  the  first  promotion  didn't 
seem  to  help  very  much.  For  there  are  so  many  things 
which  one  can't  do  without.  Lily  lapped  up  luxuries  as 
a  cat  laps  cream.  To  be  sure,  she  was  deft  with  her 
needle,  but  nice  materials  are  always  expensive.  And  she 
liked  pretty  furnishings  for  her  dinner  table  and  good 
things  to  eat  on  it;  and  in  her  own  room  all  sorts  of 
toilet  appliances.  Although  her  dressing  table  might  be 
made  of  a  packing  box  draped  with  muslin,  she  liked  an 
array  of  costly  things  on  it ;  and  in  the  cupboard  the  last 
word  in  lotions  and  cosmetics.  The  delicate  fair  skin 
which  had  suffered  from  the  hot,  dry  climate  of  the  south- 
west must  be  delicately  restored  by  art;  the  flaxen  hair 
must  be  treated  with  the  utmost  care  and  science.  In 
short,  Lily  worshiped  her  body  and  nothing  was  too  good 
for  it.  And,  of  course,  Frank  had  to  have  his  uniform 
up  to  date  and  in  good  order.  About  that  there  was 
no  choice.  She  anathematized  every  order  prescribing 
changes  and  additions  in  the  matter  of  uniform,  and 
longed  with  all  her  soul  for  the  next  promotion.  She 
did  not  hesitate  to  write  home  and  ask  that  birthday  and 
Christmas  presents  should  be  in  money;  neither  did  she 
scruple  to  ask  for  additional  gifts,  although  she  knew — 
no  one  better  than  she — the  limits  of  her  father's  income. 
For  such  a  gift  she  was  now  waiting  with  an  impatience 
which  she  could  hardly  control.  She  had  an  account  at 
a  big  New  York  store  and  had  been  unable  to  pay  the 
last  month's  bill,  which  was  headed  by  the  dread  words, 
"Account  rendered";  and  she  had  a  lively  recollection 
of  the  only  time  when  Frank  had  been  so  angry  with  her 
that  she  really  could  not  manage  him.  Indeed,  "angry" 
was  a  mild  term  for  his  fury  of  rage  and  mortification 
when  he  told  her  that  a  bill  of  hers  had  been  sent  to 


294  Isabel  Stirling 

the  War  Department,  and  the  amount  kept  out  of  his 
pay.  It  was  a  hideous  experience  and  one  which  she 
could  not  repeat.    But  what  was  to  be  done? 

Just  at  this  crisis  it  was  irritating  to  be  present  when 
a  large  box  arrived  from  the  east  for  Isabel;  a  dress- 
maker's box,  of  all  arrivals  the  most  interesting.  Isabel 
didn't  want  to  unpack  it  with  Lily  looking  on,  seeing  in 
advance  the  envy  in  her  eyes,  no  matter  what  might  be 
the  criticism  on  her  tongue.  She  put  the  box  aside,  but 
Lily  lingered.  Irritating  or  not,  she  wanted  to  see  what 
Isabel  had  got. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  open  it?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  after  a  while." 

"But  I  want  to  see  your  things.  That's  what  I'm 
waiting  for.  I  dare  say  some  of  the  women  will  try  to 
copy  them,  but  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  me" 

"I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing,"  said  Isabel,  flush- 
ing. 

She  cut  the  string  and  took  the  outer  wrapping  paper 
off;  then  raised  the  cover.  "I  hardly  know  what  Miss 
Timmons  has  sent,"  she  said,  as  she  pulled  a  gown  from 
the  enveloping  tissue  paper.     "Oh !" 

The  exclamation  was  involuntary  and  expressed  sheer 
pleasure. 

"It  is  lovely,"  said  Lily,  putting  out  an  appraising 
finger  to  feel  of  the  material.  "But  a  little  fade-away, 
don't  you  think?  There  won't  be  much  color  in  it  when 
you  get  into  a  roomful  of  real  pinks  and  blues." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Isabel.    "I  like  it." 

The  dress  was  of  pale  pink  silk  of  softest  sheen,  half 
covered  with  tulle  of  the  same  tint.  People  wore  over- 
skirts  in  those  days,  and  bouffant  draperies,  but  artistic 
fingers  had  made  an  ugly  fashion  look  graceful.  She 
shook  out  the  soft  folds  and  held  it  off  at  arm's  length. 
Then  she  happened  to  glance  at  Lily  and  her  face  changed. 
She  laid  the  dress  over  the  back  of  a  chair. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  try  it  on?"  asked  Lily. 

"Not  now,"  she  said  carelessly.  "It's  too  much 
trouble."     She  did  wish  Lily  would  go. 


Isabel  Stirling  295 

"You  really  ought  to  see  it  on  another  person  to  get 
the  effect.  I  could  put  it  on  to  show  you.  We  are  not 
so  different,  even  if  you  are  taller." 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  about  my  seeing  it  now,"  said 
Isabel  hastily.  "I'll  just  take  it  into  the  other  room,  in 
case  any  of  the  men  come  in." 

She  picked  it  up  and  opened  the  door  of  her  bedroom, 
but  Lily  was  behind  her,  already  unhooking  her  own 
gown.  "Yes,  it's  better  to  come  in  here,"  she  said 
calmly. 

She  had  her  gown  off  in  an  instant,  while  Isabel  stood 
helplessly  looking  at  her.  Then  she  seized  the  pink  gown 
and  put  it  over  her  head. 

"Just  lace  it  up  for  me,"  she  said.  "You  can  skip 
some  of  the  eyelets,  you  know." 

Inwardly  rebellious,  Isabel  obeyed  her.  She  felt  as 
if  she  would  like  to  slap  the  white  shoulders  which  were 
turned  toward  her. 

"It  just  suits  me,"  said  Lily  complacently.  "You  see, 
all  my  tints  are  delicate  enough  to  go  with  this  faint  shade 
of  pink."  She  regarded  herself  eagerly  in  the  mirror. 
"You  need  more  decided  colors.  Such  a  shame  that 
Timmons  doesn't  know  enough  to  see  that."  She  turned 
herself  about,  swishing  the  train  behind  her  and  stepping 
on  the  front  as  she  did  so. 

Isabel  watched  her  in  silence. 

"Oh,  you  dear  thing!"  cried  Lily,  looking  at  her  with 
malice  in  her  shallow  blue  eyes.  "You  needn't  grudge 
me  its  becomingness — here  in  your  bedroom."  She 
turned  herself  this  way  and  that,  before  the  mirror. 
"You've  got  the  only  cheval  glass  in  the  post,"  she 
added. 

"It  certainly  is  becoming,"  said  Isabel,  trying  to  hide 
her  vexation.  For  the  moment,  her  pleasure  in  the  new 
gown  was  spoiled  and  she  half  felt  like  telling  Lily  to 
take  it.  But  one  hardly  cared  to  play  into  her  hand. 
She  would  have  accepted  it  instantly. 

Lily  had  taken  up  the  hand-glass  and  was  now  survey- 
ing her  back.    "Well,"  she  said  finally,  with  a  long  sigh, 


296  Isabel  Stirling 

"I  must  get  into  my  old  clothes  now  and  go  home. 
Unlace  me,  please.' ' 

Isabel  took  the  gown  off  from  her  and  threw  it  care- 
lessly on  the  bed.  When  Dick  came  in  he  saw  it  there. 
He  lifted  the  edge  of  the  skirt  and  looked  at  it.  "Pretty 
nice.  You'll  be  good  enough  to  eat  in  that.  But  there's 
a  spot."    He  pointed  to  a  smudge  near  the  bottom. 

"Lily  wanted  to  try  it  on,  "  said  Isabel,  "and  stepped 
on  it." 

"What  queer  things  women  are,"  he  commented,  "try- 
ing on  each  other's  clothes." 

"Could  you  imagine  me  doing  such  a  thing?"  cried 
Isabel  indignantly.  "I  hated  her  to  try  it  on,  but  she 
insisted.     And  oh,  Dick,  she  was  so  envious." 

"Oh,  well — any  of  us  might  be  envious,  you  know,  if 
we  had  to  do  without  things."  He  started  out  of  the 
room,  whistling,  but  turned  at  the  door.  "Going  to  wear 
it  to  the  hop  to-night?" 

"No,  indeed.  I'm  not  going.  And  if  I  were,  I  shouldn't 
get  myself  up  in  a  new  frock  when  you're  Officer  of 
the  Day  and  have  to  go  in  fatigue  uniform.  It's  to  do 
you  credit  at  Colonel  Raynor's  dinner  next  week." 

But  Lily  was  going  to  the  hop,  and  Isabel's  new  gown 
and  her  own  entrancing  appearance  in  it  had  hardened 
a  resolution  which  had  been  slowly  forming  in  her  mind. 
Once  let  her  get  that  bill  paid  and  she  could  start  a  fresh 
account.  She  surely  did  need  a  new  evening  dress — and 
why  should  Isabel  have  everything?  She  dressed  herself 
in  the  best  of  her  old  ones  that  evening,  a  soft,  clinging 
white  gown ;  and  touched  cheeks,  lips  and  eyebrows  with 
deft,  artistic  fingers.  When  she  had  finished  she  was  a 
trifle  paler  than  usual,  with  slight  shadows  under  her 
eyes.  "I'm  rather  a  fright  when  I  look  like  this,"  she 
sighed,  "but  it's  best — and  it's  worth  it !"  She  composed 
her  features  into  an  expression  of  gentle  melancholy — 
then  grimaced  at  herself  in  the  glass. 

Her  husband  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  next  room. 
"Aren't  you  well?"  he  asked,  looking  at  her  sharply. 
"You  don't  look  quite  yourself." 


Isabel  Stirling  297 

She  gave  an  ill-natured  little  laugh.  "Perfectly  well. 
I  suppose  I  look  a  bit  passee  in  my  old  clothes." 

He  sighed  with  vexation.  "Your  clothes  always  look 
all  right" 

"But  they're  not !"  she  retorted  sharply. 

They  walked  to  the  dancing  hall  in  silence,  but  when 
they  entered  the  room  Lily's  face  wore  its  most  alluring 
smile.  As  a  matter  of  course,  Dick  came  presently  to 
ask  her  to  dance.  To  his  surprise  she  proposed  that 
they  should  sit  it  out,  and  immediately  conducted  him  to 
the  only  retired  corner  which  the  big  bare  place  afforded. 
He  went  somewhat  discontentedly,  for  although  he  loved 
to  dance  with  Lily  he  cared  little,  if  he  would  have  con- 
fessed it,  for  her  conversation.  She  seated  herself, 
giving  her  drapery  a  dexterous  twist,  to  clear  the  way 
to  a  chair  close  beside  her. 

"I'm  low  in  my  mind  to-night,"  she  said,  "and  for 
about  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  don't  feel  like  dancing." 

"Oh,  if  you're  low  in  your  mind,"  said  Dick,  rising 
with  alacrity,  "come  on  and  dance.  It's  a  great  deal 
better  for  you  than  talking." 

But  Lily  shook  her  head  sadly.  She  sighed  and  looked 
down,  then  raised  her  eyes  appealingly.  "Do  sit  down," 
she  said.     "Perhaps  in  a  few  minutes  I'll  dance." 

He  sat  down.  There  seemed  nothing  else  to  do.  But 
he  found  nothing  to  say.  Lily  was  again  looking  at  the 
floor  and  did  not  seem  to  be  thinking  about  him.  Pres- 
ently, however,  she  raised  her  head,  as  if  she  had  taken 
a  great  resolution. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "if  I  dare  tell  you 
how  desperately  worried  I  am." 

"It  would  do  you  more  good  to  forget  your  worries 
and  have  a  good  time,"  parried  the  unwilling  confidant. 

"But  I'm  so  worried  about  Frank,"  she  persisted.  His 
reluctance  to  listen  was  so  evident  that  she  gave  up  the 
idea  of  trusting  to  her  own  allurement  and  threw  herself 
on  the  claims  of  his  friendship  for  her  husband.  The 
thought  crossed  her  mind  that  she  needn't  have  made  a 


298  Isabel  Stirling 

fright  of  herself,  after  all.  The  stupid  man  didn't  know 
how  she  looked. 

At  the  mention  of  her  husband  Dick  turned  to  her 
with  a  changed  manner.  "What's  the  matter  with 
Frank?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"Do  you  think  he's  looking  well?" 

"No,  I  don't.  I've  been  thinking  about  it.  Isn't  he 
well?" 

"He's  not  ill,"  said  Lily  slowly,  "but  oh,  he  is  so 
worried  all  the  time.  And  now — now  it's  going  to  be 
worse."  She  hoped  that  the  pathetic  tremor  in  her  voice 
was  not  lost  on  Dick,  but  could  not  feel  sure.  He  was 
so  dull.  "It's  all  my  fault,"  she  continued.  "I  meant 
so  well  and  have  been  so  foolish — and  now  I'm  frantic 
about  him.  He  is  going  to  be  beside  himself  when  he 
knows." 

"Knows  what  ?"  Dick  settled  back  in  his  chair.  "Per- 
haps you'd  better  begin  at  the  beginning  and  tell  me. 
If  I  can  do  anything " 

"Oh,  you're  so  good.     You're  always  so  good!" 

Genuine  tears  of  relief  were  in  her  eyes  as  she  raised 
them  to  his.  She  did  not  let  them  fall,  however.  Quite 
surely  Dick  would  not  have  liked  that.  Instead,  she 
waited  for  a  moment  and  visibly  conquered  them.  "Now 
I'm  not  going  to  be  silly,"  she  said,  smiling  deprecatingly. 
"But  it  is  hard  to  confess  one's  mistakes.  I  feel  half  like 
running  away.  But  then — there's  no  one  but  you  I  can 
speak  to — Frank's  friend — and  mine."  She  stopped, 
with  an  air  of  reluctance. 

Dick  had  seen  the  tears  and  was  thankful  to  her  for 
suppressing  them.  She  really  looked  very  pretty,  in  spite 
of  her  pallor — and  she  was  Frank's  wife.  His  manner 
became  far  more  sympathetic. 

"Go  on  and  tell  me,"  he  said  encouragingly. 

She  did  not  fail  to  appreciate  the  kindness  of  his  voice. 
"I've  made  a  debt,"  she  murmured.  Her  shame facedness 
was  not  all  put  on.    "And  Frank  doesn't  know." 

"If  it's  only  money  it  can  be  mended." 

"Of  course  that  seems  only  a  small  trouble  to  you," 


Isabel  Stirling  299 

she  said  reproachfully.  "It's  pretty  dreadful  for  us. 
And  oh,  I  know  how  wrong  it  was,  but  I  didn't  realize 
how  large  it  was  getting.  And  now  they're  dunning 
me  to  pay  the  bill  and  there  won't  be  anything  to  pay 
it  with,  even  when  I  do  tell  Frank — and  he's  already 
worried  with  just  ordinary  expenses.  You  know  how 
punctilious  he  is."  She  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  "I'm 
almost  out  of  my  mind  about  it !"  she  exclaimed  passion- 
ately. "Sometimes  I'm  afraid  Frank  will  kill  himself 
when  he  knows.  He  said  once  that  he  would  rather  shoot 
himself — "  She  stopped  suddenly.  "I've  sent  home," 
she  added,  in  a  subdued  voice,  "but  they  can't  help  me." 

"Don't  worry  about  it  any  more,"  said  Dick.  "Surely 
Frank  will  accept  a  loan  from  me."  But  he  spoke  with 
an  assurance  that  he  did  not  feel. 

"He  would  never  take  it  in  the  world,"  said  Lily 
quickly.  Must  she  dot  all  her  i's  before  he  would  under- 
stand? "And  he  would  never  forgive  me  if  he  knew 
that  I  had  told  you  anything.  And  I'd  have  to  tell  him 
about  this  debt,  and — oh,  don't  you  see  what  a  horrid 
mess  it  would  be?  No,  it's  awfully  good  of  you,  Dick — 
just  as  good  as  it  can  be — but  you'd  better  just  forget 
that  I  have  said  anything  at  all.  I  don't  know  why  I 
did — but  it  seemed  as  if  I  simply  had  to  tell  someone. 
And  perhaps — "  her  voice  trembled  a  little — "perhaps  I 
might  do  something  to  earn  money.  Maybe  Isabel  would 
let  me  do  some  sewing  for  her — and  pay  me.  I  am 
skilful,  you  know." 

"Oh,  stop  it,  Lily!  What  are  friends  good  for  if  they 
can't  help  each  other  out?  But  not  that  way.  Don't 
be  absurd." 

Come  now,  thought  Lily,  this  was  better.  She  cast 
down  her  eyes,  lest  their  exultation  betray  her. 

"Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,"  Dick  went  on,  "you  and 
Isabel  must  get  together.  Frank  and  I  will  be  entirely 
out  of  it.  You  tell  Isabel  just  how  much  you  need  and 
I'll  see  that  she  has  it  to  give  to  you.  I'll  talk  to  her 
first,  of  course.     And  then  we'll  all  be  happy." 

How  utterly  exasperating  he  was,   in  his  stupidity! 


300  Isabel  Stirling 

Lily  raised  pained  eyes  to  his  face.  "You  dear  fellow," 
she  said.  "You  are  too  sweet  and  generous  for  words, 
but  I  could  never,  never  do  that.  You  know  Isabel  don't 
like  me  as  much  as  I  like  her — she  never  has,  even  when 
we  were  small  children.  She  wouldn't  judge  me  as  kindly 
as  you  do.  Of  course  she  would  have  a  right  to  judge 
me  harshly,  for  I've  been  so  foolish  and  such  a  bad 
manager — though  I've  truly  had  my  lesson  now.  But 
no,  Dick,  I  don't  see  how  I  could  possibly  tell  Isabel 
about  my  failures  and  follies — and  as  to  taking  money 
from  her— even  if  it  really  comes  from  you — oh,  I  can 
sacrifice  my  pride  a  good  deal,  for  Frank's  sake,  but  not 
that!  Thank  you  just  the  same,  dear  Dick.  I  do 
appreciate  it." 

Their  corner  was  quite  retired.  She  laid  her  fingers 
on  his  hand,  with  a  timid,  but  clinging  touch,  and  the 
eyes  which  were  upturned  to  his  veiled  their  shallow 
hardness  under  the  film  of  tears,  which  came  so  obediently 
to  her  need  of  them.  Dick  was  sorry  and  embarrassed, 
but  his  instinct  still  warned  him  to  keep  out  of  a  personal 
money  transaction  with  his  friend's  wife. 

"You're  mistaken  about  Isabel,"  he  said.  "Just  try 
her.     She'll  be  only  too  glad  to  help." 

"But  you  know  she  would  be  critical  of  me  in  her 
heart.  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  large  and  fine  enough  to  accept 
that  sort  of  help  from  anyone  who  don't  feel  very,  very 
kindly  toward  me — as  I'm  sure  you  do.  You  can't 
really  assure  me  that  my  instinct  about  Isabel's  feeling 
toward  me  is  at  fault." 

Dick,  nothing  if  not  honest,  hesitated  just  for  an 
instant  under  her  scrutiny.  When  he  was  about  to 
speak  she  put  out  her  hand  to  stop  him. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  "you  needn't  say  a  word.  And 
thank  you  just  the  same.  There's  nothing  left  but  to 
tell  Frank  and  take  the  consequences.  Poor  Frank!  If 
I  could  only  spare  him!    /  don't  matter." 

Dick  was  desperately  uncomfortable.  It  seemed  that 
there  was  no  v/ay  to  get  around  it.  "Look  here!"  he 
said  brusquely.     "Tell  me  just  how  much  you  need. 


Isabel  Stirling  301 

We'll  keep  it  between  ourselves,  since  you  prefer  it  that 
way." 

Lily  thought  quickly  and  decided  to  add  fifty  dollars  to 
the  debt.  The  larger  the  amount,  the  more  convincingly 
it  would  show  that  Frank  could  not  possibly  pay  it. 
Besides,  Dick  owed  her  something  for  being  so  hard  to 
manage,  with  his  talk  about  Isabel. 

She  drooped  her  head  and  seemed  to  hesitate.  "It's 
such  a  lot,"  she  murmured. 

"Oh,  come,  don't  be  afraid." 

There  was  not  in  his  tone  the  tender  sympathy  that 
she  needed.  She  felt  wounded ;  and  added  another  fifty. 
"It's  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,"  she  said  in  so  low 
a  tone  that  he  had  to  bend  over  her  to  hear  the  words. 

He  straightened  up  with  a  laugh.  "All  this  misery 
for  that?"  he  said. 

"It's  more  than  a  month's  pay,"  she  said  in  an  injured 
tone,  and  wished  she  had  asked  for  a  little  more.  "We 
are  always  behind,  without  that.  Of  course  it  don't  seem 
much  to  people  like  you  and  Isabel,  but  it  is  tragedy 
for  us." 

His  face  grew  sober.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "it  would  be 
hard  on  Frank.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  laughing,  Lily, 
but  I  had  really  been  afraid  perhaps  I  wouldn't  have 
enough  on  hand.  Now  it's  all  right,  and  everything  will 
be  happy  again." 

"Oh,  you  are  so  good — so  good!"  she  cried  softly. 
"You  know  I'd  never,  never  take  it,  but  for  Frank  and 
to  save  him  unhappiness.  For  myself,  I'd  rather  get 
down  on  my  knees  and  scrub." 

"Well,  now,  it's  all  settled.  I'll  give  you  my  cheque 
to-morrow."  He  rose  as  he  spoke.  "I  expect  you  are 
keeping  some  partner  out  of  his  dance." 

"One  moment."  She  rose  too,  and  laid  her  hand  on 
his  arm.  "I'm  afraid  the  cheque — have  you  got  it  in 
cash?" 

He  flushed  with  vexation.  How  he  hated  the  affair! 
But  she  was  right  about  the  cheque.  There  might  be 
embarrassments.     He  wondered  whether  she  wouldn't, 


302  Isabel  Stirling 

after  all,  have  taken  the  money  from  Isabel  if  he  had 
insisted. 

"Yes,  I  drew  out  some  money  a  day  or  two  ago," 
he  said,  a  little  stiffly.  "I  have  enough.  I'll  put  it  in  an 
envelope  and  give  it  to  you  to-morrow." 

"You'll  hate  me — I  give  you  so  much  trouble.  But 
I'll  thank  you  as  long  as  I  live,  Dick.  If  you  qome 
right  after  breakfast,  on  your  way  to  guard  mounting, 
I'll  look  out  and  go  to  the  door  myself." 

"Very  well,"  said  Dick,  leading  the  way  back  to  the 
ballroom. 

Lily  reflected  that  although  he  had  said  they  would 
keep  it  to  themselves,  she  had  not  got  him  to  promise 
definitely  that  he  would  not  tell  Isabel.  One  couldn't 
think  of  everything — and  he  hurried  her  so  at  the  end. 
But  after  all,  he  would  hardly  tell.  It  wouldn't  be  any 
too  comfortable  for  him  to  own  up  to  his  wife.  It  was 
the  kind  of  thing  a  man  would  keep  to  himself. 

But  then,  Lily  did  not  quite  understand  the  relation 
between  Dick  and  his  wife. 


LVIII 

Dick  had  always  found  it  more  comfortable  to  take  a 
superficial  view  of  his  friend's  wife.  Instinctively,  he 
didn't  want  to  understand  her  thoroughly.  Now,  com- 
pelled to  a  better  comprehension,  he  stigmatized  her  as 
a  little  cat,  and  himself  as  a  simpleton.  Not  that  he 
was  unwilling  to  help  her  out  of  her  scrape.  Indeed, 
for  Frank's  sake,  it  was  necessary  to  help  her  out;  but 
it  ought  to  have  been  done  through  Isabel.  Between 
the  two  women,  all  could  have  been  arranged;  whereas, 
if  Frank  should  ever  find  out  what  he  was  doing,  good- 
bye to  their  friendship.  The  perspiration  started  out 
on  his  brow  as  he  thought  about  it.  He  wanted  to  go 
straight  home  and  tell  Isabel  all  about  it.  A  moment's 
reflection  convinced  him  that  Lily  would  not  have  re- 
fused to  take  the  packet  of  money  from  her,  in  spite 
of  her  fine  words.  How  she  had  wound  him  around 
her  finger! 

But  meantime,  he  was  engaged  to  dance  with  his 
Major's  wife  and  with  his  Colonel's  niece.  Impossible 
to  cut  the  rest  of  the  hop  and  go  home.  'The  dancing 
was  to  stop  at  eleven,  but  afterward  there  was  to  be 
a  larger  supper  party  than  usual  at  his  quarters.  He 
and  Isabel  were  trying  to  make  the  visit  of  the  Colonel's 
niece  pleasant.  And  he  couldn't  slip  off  earlier  because 
Miss  Raynor  had  put  him  down  for  two  dances,  one 
of  them  being  the  very  last;  and  as  the  Colonel  could 
not  come  to  supper  that  night,  he  was  to  act  as  her 
escort  and  take  her  home  again  afterward,  and  then, 
being  Officer  of  the  Day,  he  would  still  have  to  make 
a  round  of  the  big  post. 

He  sighed  with  vexation,  resolved  to  expedite  the  sup- 
per so  far  as  he  might  and  get  back  home  before  Isabel 
could  go  to  sleep.    He  was  almost  sure  they  would  de- 


304  Isabel  Stirling 

cide  to  have  her  hand  Lily  the  money.  Then  with  an 
effort,  he  threw  the  affair  aside  and  did  his  duty  by 
the  female  relatives  of  his  superior  officers.  So  well 
did  he  do  it  that  the  Major's  wife,  when  she  was  brush- 
ing her  hair  that  night,  confided  to  her  husband  that 
she  was  rather  sorry  for  Mrs.  Maiden. 

"Really,"  she  said,  "she  makes  a  great  mistake  to  keep 
that  tiresome  old  promise  about  dancing.  She  ought 
to  go  with  her  husband  and  keep  her  eye  on  him." 

And  the  Colonel's  niece  said  to  her  uncle  at  breakfast 
the  next  morning  that  she  should  think  Mr.  Maiden's 
pretty  wife  would  be  jealous  of  him;  he  flirted  around 
so.  Whereupon  Colonel  Raynor  snubbed  her  properly 
and  warned  her  not  to  start  garrison  gossip. 
•  "And  you  needn't  worry  about  Mrs.  Maiden,"  he  ad- 
ded. "Her  young  man  knows  how  well  off  he  is.  He's 
only  being  polite." 

The  supper  was  a  lively  one ;  so  lively  that  even  Frank's 
careworn  countenance  relaxed.  Lily  was  in  high  feather, 
relieved  of  all  her  anxieties,  and  as  for  the  Colonel's 
niece,  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  she  was  enjoying 
army  life.  But  Isabel  wondered  why  Dick  was  in  such 
a  hurry  to  get  the  supper  served.  He  did  contrive  to 
say  to  her  aside,  that  he  wanted  a  chance  to  talk  to  her, 
but  somebody  claimed  her  attention  just  then  and  she 
failed  to  get  an  impression  that  it  was  of  importance. 
No  one  else  was  in  a  hurry.  It  seemed  as  if  they  had 
never  stayed  so  late  before.  The  Colonel's  niece  laughed 
incessantly  and  was  evidently  loth  to  have  the  enter- 
tainment end.  When  at  last  the  good-byes  were  said, 
her  host  made  as  short  work  as  possible  of  the  walk 
home  with  her,  covering  up  his  impatience  by  an  extra 
empressement  of  manner. 

He  was  hurrying  back  to  his  quarters  when  Major 
Home  hailed  him  from  his  verandah. 

"Come  up,  won't  you,"  said  he.  "It's  late,  but  you 
won't  be  going  to  bed,  as  you  have  your  round  to  make, 
and  I've  been  wanting  a  chance  to  talk  with  you." 

What  was  the  junior  officer  to  do  ?    Dick  went  up  the 


Isabel  Stirling  305 

steps,  accepted  a  cigar,  and  was  told  news  which  drove 
Lily  and  her  affairs  clean  out  of  his  head. 

He  stayed  with  Major  Home  nearly  an  hour,  and 
Isabel,  tired  of  waiting  for  him,  at  last  went  to  bed  and 
to  sleep.  Dick  did  remember  Lily  when  he  got  home, 
and  was  disappointed,  but  he  would  not  for  anything 
have  waked  his  wife.  Let  her  sleep  peacefully,  while 
she  could!  There  would  be  time  enough  to  talk  in  the 
morning.  He  put  out  the  lamp  which  had  been  left 
burning  for  him  and  started  out  for  his  starlight  walk 
around  the  post. 

It  was  after  two  o'clock  when  he  got  back  from  his 
tour  and  went  to  bed  on  a  sofa  downstairs  which  had 
been  arranged  by  his  order,  so  that  he  need  not  awaken 
Isabel  when  he  went  out  again.  He  was  wide  awake 
at  first,  and  not  particularly  tired,  but  in  the  end  slept 
heavily.  He  was  roused  by  the  din  of  an  alarm  clock 
set  on  a  china  plate  beside  him ;  a  device  which  could  be 
relied  on.  He  sat  up  with  a  start,  rolled  off  his  sofa 
and  hustling  on  his  clothes,  rushed  out  for  reveille  roll- 
call. 

On  his  way  back,  looking  forward  to  his  bath  and 
proper  toilet,  to  be  followed  by  breakfast  with  his  wife, 
he  remembered  Lily  and  his  promise  to  take  her  the 
money.    Well,  he  could  tell  Isabel  about  it  at  breakfast. 

But  on  his  return  he  found  no  Isabel,  only  a  note 
saying  that  Mrs.  Betts's  baby  was  very  ill  and  she  had 
gone  over  to  see  what  she  could  do  to  help. 

Dick  realized  afterward  that  the  matter  might  have 
waited  a  few  hours,  but  he  had  an  incurable  habit  of 
keeping  his  engagements  promptly.  Moreover,  the  news 
of  the  night  before,  followed  by  a  few  hours'  sleep,  had, 
for  the  moment,  blunted  his  perceptions.  This  was  just 
a  disagreeable  thing  that  he  must  get  off  his  mind  be- 
fore he  could  go  on  to  anything  else.  He  swallowed  the 
last  of  his  coffee  and  went  to  his  desk.  Unlocking  a 
drawer,  he  pulled  out  the  money,  counted  it  and  folded 
the  notes  as  flat  as  he  could.  But  they  were  quite  new 
and  a  good  many  small  ones,   so  they  made  a  thick 


306  Isabel  Stirling 

package,  which  he  thrust  into  an  envelope.  Hastily 
Duckling  on  his  sword  and  snatching  his  cap  and  gloves, 
he  strode  over  to  the  Hazeltons'  quarters.  Lily  was  at 
the  door  as  he  ran  up  the  steps. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said,  in  his  usual  tone.  Dick 
was  not  used  to  concealments  and  precautions. 

Lily  put  her  finger  to  her  lips  and  gave  him  a  warning 
look,  as  she  held  out  her  hand.  Her  fingers  closed 
quickly  and  graspingly  on  the  envelope.  "Oh,  thank 
you,"  she  said,  just  above  her  breath. 

The  next  instant  Frank's  head  appeared  behind  hers 
in  the  doorway.    "Come  in,"  he  invited. 

"I  haven't  an  instant,"  replied  Dick,  hurriedly,  trying 
not  to  look  as  embarrassed  as  he  felt. 

How  stupid  of  him,  thought  Lily.  Why  couldn't  he 
come  in?  Now  she  would  have  to  invent.  "I'm  sorry 
you're  in  such  a  hurry,"  she  said.  "Tell  Isabel,  yes, 
I'll  be  delighted  to  come  over." 

She  wished  that  Dick  had  made  the  money  into  a 
smaller  package.  As  it  was  impossible  to  conceal  it, 
she  handled  it  as  if  it  were  of  no  account.  Frank's  ap- 
pearance on  the  scene  was  quite  contrary  to  her  expec- 
tation. He  was  supposed  to  be  taking  his  morning  ride, 
but,  as  ill  luck  would  have  it,  he  had  returned  earlier 
than  he  ordinarily  did. 

As  Dick  dashed  down  the  steps,  Frank  said  idly: 
"That  was  the  shortest  message  ever  given.  It  seemed 
to  consist  in  saying  good-morning." 

"Oh,"  said  Lily,  "I  was  to  tell  him  when  he  came, 
whether  I  could  go  over  there  this  morning  to  help  Isa- 
bel with  some  sewing.    I  must  be  off  right  away." 

She  said  it  quite  smoothly  and  easily,  but,  in  her  haste 
and  her  desire  to  get  away  she  placed  the  imaginary 
engagement  too  soon.  Although  Frank  was  not  aware 
of  any  reason  for  suspicion  he  was,  as  it  were,  auto- 
matically suspicious. 

"He  hasn't  gone  home,"  he  said.  "You'll  have  to 
deliver  your  message  yourself.  I  don't  see  why  he 
came." 


Isabel  Stirling  307 

"That's  a  fact.  Why— how  stupid  of  us!"  The  ex- 
clamation was  quite  sincere. 

Frank  had  laid  an  arm  across  her  shoulder  and  kept 
her  from  flight.  She  dropped  the  hand  containing  the 
precious  packet  until  it  hung  down  between  them.  In 
that  way  it  was  safe  from  view.  Unfortunately,  it  was 
stiff  at  the  corners. 

"What's  that  you're  sticking  into  me?"  asked  Frank. 
He  withdrew  his  arm,  and,  reaching  down,  pulled  up 
her  hand. 

"It's  just  a  pattern  Isabel  sent  me,"  she  replied  easily. 

"The  stiffest  pattern  I  ever  felt,"  said  Frank,  who  had 
vast  experience  with  the  envelopes  full  of  mysterious 
scraps  of  tissue  paper.  He  pinched  the  envelope  and 
bent  it  back  and  forth,  Lily  still  holding  tightly  to  it. 
Suddenly  his  face  changed  and  he  felt  it  more  carefully. 
She  tried  to  pull  it  away,  but  in  vain. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  he  said.  "I'd  like  to  look  at  your 
pattern." 

"Oh,  nonsense,  Frank!"  She  clung  to  it  with  cold 
fingers. 

He  pulled  them  away,  quite  gently,  but  with  a  strength 
which  she  could  not  resist.  Then  he  tore  the  envelope 
open. 

"There  seems  to  be  a  good  deal  of  it,"  he  said  dryly. 
He  flattened  the  package,  and  lifting  the  end  of  each 
note,  counted  them. 

"Now  please  explain,"  he  said.  "Two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  is  a  sum  which  is  not  quite  legitimate  in 
this  house." 

Lily  was  trembling  and  the  tears  which  came  to  her 
eyes  were  genuine.  She  struggled  to  make  her  voice 
even. 

"Isabel  insisted,"  she  said.  "She — I  couldn't  help 
telling  her  some  of  my  troubles  and  she  said  we  had 
been  friends  all  our  lives — long  before  I  ever  heard  of 
you — and  I  must  let  her  treat  me  like  a  sister.  She  has 
plenty  of  money." 

Frank's  face,  which  had  been  white,  flushed  deeply. 


308  Isabel  Stirling 

"She  may  have  plenty  of  money,"  he  said,  "but  it  is  not 
for  us  to  take  it."  He  refolded  the  notes  and  put  them 
into  the  envelope  again. 

"Very  well,  give  it  to  me  and  I  will  take  it  back," 
said  Lily  meekly.     "I  said  you  wouldn't  like  it." 

"And  so  you  were  not  going  to  tell  me.  It  was  a 
pattern.  No,  Lily,  I  can't  trust  you  about  money.  We 
will  take  it  back  together."  He  put  the  package  into 
his  pocket  and  picked  up  his  cap.     "Come!"  he  said. 

Lily  burst  into  tears.  She  did  not  try  to  conceal  her 
face,  which  was  quite  distorted  and  ugly.  "You  haven't 
any  right!"  she  exclaimed,  between  her  sobs. 

"I  have  every  right.     Come !" 

"I — I  can't!"  she  gasped.  She  threw  herself  back 
on  a  sofa,  with  an  air  of  fainting.  "I  think  I'm  going 
to  die,"  she  murmured. 

"You're  not  fainting  and  you're  not  going  to  die," 
said  Frank,  immovably.     "Get  up  and  come  with  me." 

Lily  had  never  heard  him  speak  in  that  tone.  For  the 
second  time  in  her  life,  she  was  afraid  of  him.  She  got 
up,  wiped  her  eyes,  passed  her  fingers  over  her  hair  and 
went  through  the  door  in  front  of  him. 

Isabel,  who  had  just  got  home,  met  them  at  the  door. 
A  glance  at  their  faces  checked  the  cheerfulness  of  her 
greeting.  "Have  you  had  bad  news?"  she  exclaimed  in 
alarm. 

Lily  would  have  flown  to  her  to  whisper  a  hurried 
appeal,  but  her  husband's  hand  was  on  her  arm,  and  at 
her  first  movement,  he  gripped  it  tightly. 

"We  have  come  to  give  you  this,"  he  said,  taking  the 
package  from  his  pocket  and  extending  it  to  her,  "and 
to  say  that  while  Lily  appreciates  your  generosity,  she 
cannot  accept  it." 

In  her  surprise,  Isabel  backed  away  from  his  out- 
stretched hand.  "I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she 
said. 

Frank  resumed  with  an  air  of  controlling  his  temper. 
"When  you  sent  this " 


Isabel  Stirling  309 

"But  I  didn't!"  interjected  Isabel,  in  her  bewilder- 
ment. 

Frank  stopped  short.  His  face  became  livid.  There 
was  a  moment  of  dead  silence.  He  still  gripped  Lily's 
arm  so  that  she  could  not  move. 

"Of  course  you  sent  it,"  said  Lily,  desperately.  "You 
don't  understand.     It's  what  you  told  me " 

"Keep  quiet!"  said  her  husband.  His  fingers  were 
hurting  her  badly. 

Isabel  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  looked  at  the 
envelope  which  Frank  was  still  holding  out  to  her,  opened 
her  lips  to  speak,  and  closed  them  again.  What  it  was 
all  about  she  could  not  imagine,  but  it  seemed  to  her 
an  occasion  when  whatever  she  said  was  likely  to  be 
disastrous. 

Frank  stood  with  compressed  lips,  trying  to  control 
himself.  "Then  you  have  been  deceived,  too,"  he  said 
at  last,  between  set  teeth.  Leaving  the  package  on  the 
table,  he  added:  "This  is  for  Captain  Maiden,  with  my 
compliments."  Turning  on  his  heel,  he  was  about  to 
leave  the  room,  when  his  eyes  fell  on  his  wife.  She  was 
gazing  at  the  precious  package.  "Come  with  me!"  he 
said  imperatively,  and,  cowed,  she  followed  him. 

Isabel,  bewildered,  walked  to  the  table  and  picked  up 
the  mysterious  envelope.  Turning  back  the  flap,  she 
saw  its  contents.  She  dropped  it  quickly,  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  astonishment,  then  stood  quite  still,  her 
brows  puckered  in  thought. 

It  did  not  take  long  for  her  to  guess  pretty  accurately 
what  had  happened.  "Poor  Dick!"  she  said  to  herself. 
"What  was  he  to  do  in  the  hands  of  the  little  white  cat? 
And,  of  course,  he  made  a  botch  of  it." 

She  spent  the  morning  in  an  agony  of  anxiety  lest  the 
two  men  should  meet  before  she  could  get  at  Dick,  but 
when  he  came  in  to  luncheon  it  was  evident  that  nothing 
had  happened.  He  seemed  a  trifle  preoccupied,  but  not 
at  all  upset.  He  was  upset,  however,  when  she  told 
her  tale. 

"But  oh,  you  foolish  person,"  she  exclaimed  at  the 


310  Isabel  Stirling 

end,  "why  didn't  you  tell  me  and  let  me  manage  it,  if 
it  had  to  be  managed?" 

"I  wish  to  God  I  had !"  said  Dick,  desperately.  "But 
I  couldn't  get  at  you." 

He  told  her  all  about  it.     "I  was  dying  to  tell  you," 

he  ended,  "but  you  see  how  everything  got  in  my  way. 

First  last  night  and  then  this  morning.    And  now — you 

see  what  Frank  thinks  ?    It's  too  bad  to  put  into  words." 

I  see.  ^ 

He  dropped  into  a  chair,  his  elbows  on  the  table,  his 
head  supported  on  his  hands.  "It's  perfectly  hopeless! 
He  wants  to  kill  me  and  I  can't  blame  him." 

"It  shan't  be  hopeless!"  Isabel,  as  always,  rose  to 
conquer  defeat.  "There  must  be  some  way  out  of  it. 
Of  course,  he  will  never  believe  in  Lily  again,  but  I  don't 
think  he  has  believed  in  her  very  much  for  some  time. 
But  he  must  believe  in  you  again,  Dick.  He  simply 
must  be  made  to!" 

But  Dick  only  shook  his  head  miserably.  "He's  seeing 
red  just  now."  She  was  leaning  over  him  and  he  turned 
and  put  his  arm  around  her.  "You  are  the  one  satis- 
factory person  in  the  world,"  he  said.  "You  always 
understand." 


LIX 

After  Dick  had  at  last  been  obliged  to  leave  her,  Isabel 
paced  the  floor,  trying  to  find  some  way  of  cutting  the 
tangle.  That,  for  the  present,  any  effort  Dick  could 
make  would  only  be  likely  to  bring  about  a  still  worse 
situation,  she  had  to  admit.  Lily,  of  course,  was  worse 
than  useless.  She  herself  was  the  only  person  who  might 
possibly  do  anything.  If  only  she  could  get  a  chance! 
To  accomplish  anything  she  must  see  Frank  alone  and 
without  danger  of  interruption;  and  it  might  take  a 
long  time  to  bring  him  to  reason.  How  to  get  that 
opportunity? 

In  one  of  her  turns  through  the  room  she  stopped 
by  the  window  and  stood  looking  out,  scarcely  seeing 
anything  at  first.  Then  she  suddenly  started  up  to  an 
alert  attention.  Frank  rode  past,  and,  as  her  eyes  fol- 
lowed him,  she  saw  that  he  was  going  toward  the  river 
road.   N 

"Poor  fellow,"  she  said  to  herself.  "He  has  gone 
out  to  try  to  get  away  from  everyone — and  I  will  go 
after  him!" 

She  flew  to  the  kitchen  door  and  called  for  Kelly,  the 
striker.  She  had  seen  him  go  around  the  corner  of 
the  house  only  a  few  minutes  before.  She  ordered  her 
horse.  "Just  as  quickly  as  you  can,  Kelly,"  she  enjoined, 
giving  thanks  that  she  had  a  better  horse  than  Frank. 
Surely  she  could  overtake  him. 

She  put  on  her  habit  and  was  impatiently  waiting  when 
Kelly  brought  Pat  up.  He  was  mounted  to  accompany 
her. 

"But  I  don't  want  you,"  she  said.    "I  am  going  alone." 

Kelly  looked  doubtful.  "The  Captain  would  not  like 
me  to  leave  you  go  alone."  His  manner  was  respectful, 
but  firm. 

311 


312  Isabel  Stirling 

"But  I'm  not  really  going  alone/'  she  replied,  im- 
patiently, as  he  put  her  in  the  saddle.  "I'm  only  starting 
alone.  And  I'm  late  and  must  hurry."  She  gathered 
up  the  reins  as  she  spoke.  "It's  all  right,"  she  said, 
over  her  shoulder,  and  was  off  at  a  smart  gallop. 

Kelly  stood  looking  after  her  dubiously.  "But  'tis 
queer,"  he  muttered,  shaking  his  head.  "When  'tis  a 
gentleman,  he  comes  to  get  the  lady.  If  'tis  two  wim- 
min  I  should  be  following."  He  mounted  and  rode  on 
for  some  distance,  and,  by  keeping  his  horse  to  its  best 
speed,  was  able  to  keep  his  captain's  wife  in  sight  until 
she  had  overtaken  and  joined  Lieutenant  Hazelton. 
Then  he  turned  and  went  back,  wondering  at  the  queer- 
ness  of  it  all,  but  thanking  his  stars  that  he  had  been 
seen  riding  behind  Mrs.  Maiden  by  anyone  who  chose 
to  look.  No  one  knew  better  than  Kelly  the  comments 
that  might  be  made. 

It  had  not  been  difficult  for  Isabel  to  overtake  Frank, 
who  was  sitting  in  his  saddle  as  though  he  did  not  know 
where  he  was  or  what  he  was  doing,  the  horse  going  at 
the  gait  which  suited  it.  He  looked  up  in  surprise  as 
she  reined  in  beside  him,  and  the  first  involuntary  ex- 
pression on  his  face  was  of  intense  irritation. 

She  was  the  first  to  speak.  "You  are  not  glad  to 
see  me,"  she  said.  "I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  be,  but 
I  had  to  talk  to  you,  and  this  seemed  the  easiest  way." 

He  looked  at  her  gloomily.  "I  don't  see  what  good 
it  can  do." 

She  turned  to  him  a  flushed  and  eager  face.  "Oh,  yes, 
it  can  do  good.  It  must  do  good.  You  see,  I  under- 
stand all  about  it,  and  you  don't." 

"You  and  I  are  pretty  much  in  the  same  boat,"  he 
said  morosely,  "only  you  seem  to  be  fooled,  and  I  am 
not." 

"Now  see  here,  Frank,"  she  said  quietly.  "Do  I  strike 
you  as  a  person  who  is  likely  to  be  fooled?" 

"Not  in  most  things,"  he  admitted,  "unless  you  want 
to  be.  I  don't  blame  you  for  wanting  to  keep  your  eyes 
shut — but  I  can't  do  it  myself." 


Isabel  Stirling  313 

"Doesn't  it  mean  anything  to  you  that  you  have  known 
Dick  all  these  years?  Haven't  you  always  known  what 
kind  of  a  man  he  was?" 

"Don't  speak  of  him!"  said  Frank,  violently.  "There 
are  some  things  I  can't  stand." 

They  went  on  for  a  few  moments  in  silence,  their 
horses  walking  side  by  side.  Then  Isabel  said:  "You've. 
no  quarrel  with  me,  have  you?" 

"No— but " 

"But  you  want  me  to  let  you  alone.  Well,  instead  of 
that,  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  do  me  a  favor.  Will 
you?" 

"If  I  can."    It  was  a  grudging  consent. 

"Surely  you  can.  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me  while 
I  tell  you  exactly  what  happened." 

He  began  an  impatient  exclamation. 

"No,"  she  interrupted,  "you've  really  got  to  hear  me." 

He  listened  in  dogged  silence,  then,  while  she  told  him 
all  that  had  happened  exactly  as  Dick  had  told  it  to  her ; 
and  she  had  got  a  pretty  full  account  of  the  affair.  "I 
am  not  sparing  Lily,"  she  concluded,  "because  I  can't. 
I've  undertaken  to  tell  you  a  perfectly  true  story." 

"Do  you  suppose  you  have  got  at  the  true  story  ?" 
he  asked  with  a  sneer. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  she  flashed  back  at  him.  "And  so  do 
you.  You  know  perfectly  well,  Frank,  that  even  if  Dick 
didn't  want  to  tell  me  the  truth,  I  should  either  get  it 
out  of  him,  or  know  that  he  was  lying.  Dick  is  ever 
and  ever  so  much  better  than  I  am,  but  in  some  things 
he  is  no  match  for  me — and  you  know  it.  And  besides, 
you  know  that  he  has  never  been  anything  but  straight 
and  clean  and  true.  You  know  him — and  you  know 
Lily.  Or  perhaps  you  don't  know  Lily.  I  have  known 
her  all  my  life.  She  likes  to  flirt  in  a  harmless  way, 
she  likes  her  pleasure,  but  it  isn't  her  pleasure  to  flirt 
seriously.  She  does  love  to  think  that  people  are  crazy 
about  her,  but  that's  all.  Of  course,  she  has  spent  too 
much  money  and  she  has  deceived  you.  It  rests  with 
you  to  decide  whether  you  can  forgive  that    But  Dick! 


314  Isabel  Stirling 

Do  vou  mean  to  say  you  can't  see  how  it  is  about 
Dick?" 

"But  even  supposing  it  were  all  as  you  say — what 
right  had  Dick  to  give  my  wife  money — money  that  he 
knew  well  enough  I  wouldn't  myself  take  from  him  ?  Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  that  wasn't  an  insult?" 

"Well,  put  yourself  in  his  place.  Suppose  I  had  found 
myself  in  a  scrape  about  money  and  you  had  had  plenty 
— and  I  had  been  plaintive  and  pitiful — and  scared  to 
death  about  what  would  happen  to  Dick — wouldn't  you 
have  helped  me?" 

"I  can't  quite  see  you  in  the  situation,"  he  said  dryly. 

"But  suppose — just  suppose  me  not  as  myself,  but 
just  as  your  friend's  wife — Oh!"  she  cried,  impatiently. 
"Can't  you  turn  the  situation  about,  as  between  you  and 
Dick?  And  wouldn't  you  have  been  managed,  just  as 
Dick  was?  He  was  managed,  you  know.  She  pretty 
much  asked  him  for  the  money.  Can't  you  see  how  it 
was  ?  And  seeing,  can't  you  forgive  him  for  being  a  lit- 
tle stupid  ?  I  don't  deny  he  was  stupid  about  it,  but  he  is 
absolutely  true — and  down  in  your  heart,  you  know  it." 

She  stopped,  feeling  that  she  had  said  all  she  could. 
For  what  seemed  to  her  an  interminable  while  they  rode 
on  in  silence.  From  time  to  time  she  glanced  at  Frank, 
but  he  was  looking  straight  between  his  horse's  ears 
and  there  was  no  softening  of  his  set,  frowning  face. 
Well,  she  would  give  him  all  the  time  he  needed.  She 
rode  on  silently,  her  glance  straying  unseeingly  to  the 
desolate  landscape ;  a  sandy  waste,  broken  here  and  there 
by  the  cotton  wood  trees  which  half  hid  the  broad  reaches 
of  the  river,  as  it  rushed  past,  turbid  and  violent. 

After  a  while,  however,  her  preoccupation  was  pene- 
trated by  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  they  were  getting 
farther  away  from  the  post  than  they  ought,  yet  she 
would  not  on  any  account  disturb  Frank  by  suggesting 
that  they  turn  around.  So  much  depended  on  the  out- 
come of  that  mental  struggle  which  made  him  uncon- 
scious of  everything  about  him.  A  few  steps  more 
surely  would  make  no  difference.     She  went  on,  sub- 


Isabel  Stirling  315 

duing  her  uneasiness  and  trying  to  be  patient,  although 
they  had  already  passed  a  stake  on  which  a  bit  of  red 
flannel  was  fastened,  a  sign  that  they  were  in  an  un- 
friendly country.  Then,  suddenly,  with  a  gasp,  she 
leaned  over  and  clutched  his  arm.- 

By  the  side  of  the  road,  protruding  from  a  clump 
of  bushes,  she  saw  a  booted  foot,  its  toe  sticking  up 
with  a  peculiar  effect  of  rigidity. 

"Look !"  she  whispered,  just  above  her  breath. 

Frank  gave  one  look  and  then,  grasping  her  rein, 
turned  her  horse  about.     "Wait  here!"  he  commanded. 

She  heard  him,  behind  her,  go  a  few  paces  toward 
that  thing  which  lay  so  still  behind  the  bushes,  and  then 
he  came  back  to  her.  One  glance  at  his  white,  stern  face 
was  enough. 

"Come !"  he  said.  "You  have  a  better  horse  and  ride 
lighter,  but  you  must  not  let  yourself  get  separated  from 
me.  Unless  something  happens.  Then  go  as  fast  as 
you  can,  but  remember  you  have  five  miles  and  don't 
run  your  horse  out  at  the  beginning,  unless  it's  neces- 
sary. Watch  him — nurse  him  over  the  whole  distance. 
If  you  can't  get  through — have  you  your  revolver?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  Even  in  her  haste  she  had  not 
forgotten  her  promise  never  to  go  outside  the  post  with- 
out it.  And  there  was  not  a  woman  in  those  western 
outposts  who  did  not  know  that  she  must  not  be  taken 
alive  by  Indians. 

Frank  took  out  his  own  revolver,  spun  the  cylinder 
and  slipped  a  cartridge  into  the  chamber  which  he  kept 
empty  under  the  hammer.  "One  more  shot  might  help," 
he  said.  He  did  the  same  thing  for  her  and  then  they 
headed  toward  the  post  and  put  their  horses  into  a 
gallop. 

"Easy,"  said  Frank,  as  her  horse  forged  ahead.  "Re- 
member it's  a  long  way.  We  want  to  use  all  they've 
got — but  not  kill  them  until  we're  in." 

Holding  back  was  the  hardest  thing  that  Isabel  had 
ever  had  to  do.  To  fly  fast  and  straight  toward  safety 
was  her  terror-stricken  impulse.     For  any  possible  ad- 


316  Isabel  Stirling 

vantage  to  herself  she  could  hardly  have  kept  from 
doing  so,  but  she  had  an  agonizing  picture  of  Frank, 
left  behind  and  intercepted.  The  horses  knew  nothing 
of  danger,  but  they  were  headed  for  the  stables  and  it 
was  time  for  the  evening  feed.  They  pulled  at  their 
bits  and  were  continually  trying  to  break  from  the  col- 
lected gallop  in  which  they  were  held. 

How  far  it  was,  and  how  slowly  they  seemed  to  go! 
After  the  first  two  miles,  Frank's  horse  no  longer  fought 
for  his  head,  the  reins  lay  loose  on  his  neck.  Frank 
began  to  talk  to  him  and  to  encourage  him  with  a  gentle 
touch  of  the  spurs.  In  another  mile  he  was  using  his 
spurs  in  earnest.  The  horse's  gait  lost  all  its  springiness 
and  became  a  succession  of  lumbering  bounds,  each  one 
requiring  a  visible  effort.  Their  pace  was  perceptibly 
slower. 

"Hadn't  we  better  walk  a  little?"  Isabel  made  herself 
ask.     "He's  nearly  all  in,  isn't  he?" 

"No.  He's  feeling  it,  but  a  horse  can  go  a  long  while 
after  he's  tired.    That's  what  we  feed  'em  for." 

"But  isn't  he  apt  to  stumble?" 

"Oh,  no,"  he  lied  promptly. 

The  post  came  in  sight,  a  mile  away,  as  they  rose  over 
a  fold  in  the  ground  and  Frank's  horse  seemed  to  pick 
up  fresh  strength.  She  could  feel  the  jumps  of  her 
own  horse  becoming  stiffer  and  more  labored,  his  legs 
seeming  to  shake  each  time  he  came  down. 

"Pat's  not  going  to  fall,  is  he?"  she  asked  in  a  sud- 
den terror  which  she  strove  to  keep  out  of  her  voice. 
"He  seems  wobbly." 

"No  indeed,  this  fellow  has  been  that  way  for  two 
miles." 

Finally  they  came  up  to  the  gate  of  the  field  at  the 
edge  of  the  reservation,  where  a  non-com.  was  school- 
ing some  new  recruits.  Frank  slipped  off  his  horse, 
opened  the  gate  and  they  went  through.  Then  the  horse 
stretched  his  neck  out,  lowered  his  head,  shivered, 
dropped  slowly  down  and  lay  quietly  on  his  side. 

"Sergeant !"  called  Frank,  "lend  me  a  horse  and  look 


Isabel  Stirling  317 

after  this  one.  Better  get  your  men  back  to  the  bar- 
racks.    I  will  report  I  ordered  you  in." 

They  came  into  the  post  quietly  at  last  and  found  Dick 
mounting  his  horse  in  front  of  his  quarters. 

"You  had  no  business  to  go  off  in  that  way,"  he  said, 
as  he  lifted  Isabel  from  her  saddle.  No  waiting  this 
time  for  her  to  dismount  by  herself.  Relieved  from  the 
anxiety  which  had  suddenly  possessed  him,  he  was  now 
disposed  to  be  cross.  When  she  leaned  against  him 
limply,  he  looked  at  her  more  closely. 

She  heard  Frank  say  huskily :  "Thank  God  she's  back 
safe!"  What  was  it  that  his  voice  recalled  to  her,  as  if 
from  a  long  distance?  In  an  instant  it  all  came  back 
to  her.  Dick's  arm  had  tightened  around  her  now,  but 
she  pulled  herself  away  and  fled  into  the  house.  Her 
only  thought  now  must  be  to  efface  herself.  This  was 
the  moment  on  which  everything  hung.  At  the  door  she 
turned  and  saw  the  two  men  clasp  hands.  Then  she 
made  her  way  blindly  to  her  own  room,  the  tears  stream- 
ing down  her  cheeks. 

When  Dick  came  in,  she  flung  herself  into  his  arms. 
"Don't  scold  me !"  she  exclaimed  hysterically.  "I'm  glad 
I  did  it!" 

"Scold  you,  my  dearest!"  He  held  her  close  and  she 
forgot  everything  but  the  comfort  of  being  thus  held. 

Presently,  however,  she  raised  her  head  and  drew  his 
down.  "It's  all  right  between  you  and  Frank?"  she 
asked. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  answered.  "I  don't  know  how  you 
did  it,  but  I've  you  to  thank  for  it." 

"I  don't  quite  know  how  I  did  it,  myself."  She  shiv- 
ered. "I  suppose  I  got  him  ready  by  talking  a  little 
common  sense  to  him,  but  it  was  that  dreadful  ride 
together  that  really  did  it.  It  made  the  little  things  seem 
as  little  as  they  really  are.  Oh,  Dick,  something  awful 
has  happened." 

"Darling!     You  didn't  see ?" 

"No— just  enough  to  know — I  don't  know  what 
Frank  saw.     I  wish  I  needn't  imagine  it!     But  oh, 


318  Isabel  Stirling 

Dick "  she  clung  to  him  again — "will  some  of  you 

have  to  go  out  against  the  Indians?" 

"Oh,  come!  Just  let  me  give  you  a  pick-me-up,"  he 
said  cheerfully.     But  he  did  not  answer  her  question. 

Later,  after  dinner,  he  told  her  the  news  that  Major 
Home  had  given  him  the  night  before;  that  an  expedi- 
tion of  considerable  size  was  to  be  sent  out  at  once  to 
overtake  and  punish  the  Indians  who,  under  Bloody 
Lance,  most  redoubtable  of  chiefs,  had  been  particularly 
bold  in  their  depredations;  raiding  ranches,  capturing 
wagon  trains,  killing  and  capturing  women  and  children. 

"Major  Home  told  me  in  confidence  last  night,"  he 
said,  "so  I  didn't  tell  you  before,  but  now  the  order  is 
out." 

She  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder  and  he  felt  her  shud- 
der. He  held  her  close,  then  gave  her  a  little  shake. 
"Come,  now,"  he  said,  "what  else  are  we  stationed  here 
for?" 

"Who  are  going?"  she  asked  in  a  muffled  voice. 

"The  Colonel  is  going — and  pretty  nearly  all  of  us — 
about  six  hundred.  Enough  are  left  to  guard  the  post. 
That,  of  course.  We  hope  to  make  a  clean  job  of  it 
this  time." 

His  voice  jarred  on  her,  with  its  tone  of  excitement. 
"You  sound  pleased!"  she  exclaimed  reproachfully. 

"Pleased?  Well—"  He  looked  at  her  ruefully.  "Oh, 
my  dear  girl,  don't  take  it  like  that.  You  never  did 
before.  And  haven't  I  always  come  back  safe  and 
sound  ?" 

"But  I've  never  seen  before " 

"I'd  have  done  anything  to  keep  you  from  seeing — 
but  you  can  see  it  has  to  be  stopped." 

She  raised  her  head.  "Don't  be  ashamed  of  me,  Dick. 
I'll  behave." 

She  did  behave.  They  were  to  start  the  next  evening 
at  sundown,  and,  although  she  got  but  little  sleep  that 
night,  she  saw  to  it  that  nothing  disturbed  Dick.  All 
the  next  day,  while  getting  his  things  ready,  she  managed 
to  achieve  a  cheerful  every-day  manner,  almost  as  if  he 


Isabel  Stirling  319 

were  merely  setting  out  on  an  ordinary  camping  trip. 
Just  before  he  left  her  he  said: 

"I've  been  so  proud  of  you  all  day,  dearest."  A  mo- 
ment later  he  added:  "Just  think  what  it  is  for  Frank 
and  me  to  go  together  now,  and  what  it  would  have 
been  if  you  hadn't  made  things  straight." 

And  after  that,  it  was  good-bye. 


LX 

Good-byes  are  hard;  and  the  tension  of  the  last  two 
days  had  been  great.  As  Dick  rode  away  from  the  post 
with  his  face  set  toward  the  duty  ahead  of  him,  he  felt 
a  great  lightening  of  the  spirit.  Misadventures  and  per- 
plexities were  behind  him;  the  parting,  with  its  grip  on 
the  emotions,  was  over;  his  friend  was  reconciled;  un- 
der him  was  a  good  horse,  behind  him  his  own  troop, 
and  before  them  lay  an  adventure — the  sort  of  adventure 
which  might  culminate  in  one  tense  half-hour.  But  for 
such  half-hours  his  whole  professional  life,  from  the  day 
he  entered  West  Point,  had  been  merely  a  preparation. 

The  dimness  and  coolness  of  early  evening  were  re- 
freshing after  the  heat  and  glare  of  the  day.  He  turned 
in  his  saddle  and  looked  back  at  his  troop,  listened  to  the 
confused  sound  of  hoof-beats,  the  creak  of  leather  and 
the  snatches  of  talk  of  the  men.  He  knew  them,  every 
one,  just  what  each  man  was  and  what  he  was  good  for ; 
and  take  them  all  in  all,  they  could  be  depended  on. 
As  surely  as  he  knew  anything,  he  knew  that  wherever 
he  led  them,  those  eighty  horsemen  would  follow.  More 
than  that,  wherever  he  might  send  any  of  them,  they 
would  go,  and  would  deal  with  the  business  in  a  work- 
manlike way.  Discipline  they  had  of  the  old-fashioned 
kind  which  taught  them  that  their  officer  was  a  being  set 
apart,  whose  word  might  never  be  questioned.  But  they 
had  self-reliance  too,  as  befitted  trained  and  seasoned 
men,  who  knew  their  job  and  knew  that  they  knew  it. 
The  horses,  too,  were  all  in  good  shape  and,  as  he  cast 
his  eye  appraisingly  over  them,  he  blessed  the  dull  routine 
of  daily  horse  exercise  which  now  put  them  in  the  field 
fit  to  do  their  hundred  miles  in  twenty-four  hours  if 
need  be. 

Stretching  out  in  a  column,  the  head  of  which  was  lost 

320 


Isabel  Stirling  321 

in  the  twilight,  were  five  other  troops;  behind  them  two 
more;  all  good  men  and  good  horses,  but  B  Troop  was 
the  best.     Of  that  he  was  sure. 

He  fell  to  thinking  of  nothing  in  particular,  just  not- 
ing the  shadowy  clumps  of  trees  which  they  passed  here 
and  there,  the  waning  light,  as  night  came  on,  and  the 
waxing  brightness  of  the  stars. 

When  they  made  camp  about  midnight  he  was  sleepy 
and  quite  ready  to  turn  in,  but  first  he  and  Frank  smoked 
a  pipe  together.  How  good  that  pipe  was,  out  in  the 
open,  they  two  together,  just  as  they  had  been  in  the 
old  days.  Their  hearts  were  warm  with  an  affection 
which  neither  found  nor  needed  expression  in  words. 
Dick's  last  thought  before  sleep  fell  upon  him  was  not 
of  his  wife.  "Good  old  Frank,"  he  was  saying  to  him- 
self. "I  hope  this  trip  will  cheer  him  up."  But  Frank 
did  not  put  any  thought  into  words,  only  lay  on  his  back 
for  a  while  and  drew  deep  breaths ;  then  turned  over  on 
his  side  and  slept  more  peacefully  than  he  had  done  for 
many  a  night.  Far  out  in  the  night  the  sentries  were  on 
guard  and  from  close  by  came  an  occasional  stamp  and 
whinny  from  the  picket  line. 

They  were  off  again  in  the  early  morning ;  warily  this 
time,  with  scouts  ahead  searching  for  the  trail.  It  was 
picked  up,  but  was  not  fresh.  The  Indians  must  have 
passed  along  there  in  considerable  force  some  days  be- 
fore. By  degrees  it  diminished,  as  the  hostile  band 
scattered,  going  off  by  twos  and  threes,  where  the  ground 
was  hard  and  they  could  not  be  traced,  until  at  last  it 
disappeared  altogether.  Now  it  must  be  more  or  less 
guesswork,  and  Indian  scouts  are  more  skilful  guessers 
than  white  men.  Flying  Man,'  the  chief  scout,  advised 
them  to  go  southwest;  and,  "Southwest  we  go,"  agreed 
Colonel  Raynor. 

They  found  the  trail  again  a  few  miles  farther  on,  and 
once  more  advanced  carefully,  but  trotting  most  of  the 
time.  They  were  not  burdened  with  wagons,  but  had  a 
pack-train  of  mules.  The  trail  grew  wider,  as  they  went 
along,  but  still  was  not  new. 


322  Isabel  Stirling 

The  hot  midsummer  sun  of  the  north  shone  fiercely 
down  on  them  as  they  pursued  their  way.  It  was  a  deso- 
late country  which  they  traversed,  fairly  level  just  here 
and  covered  with  clumps  of  sagebrush,  with  a  thin  row 
of  trees  marking  the  course  of  a  stream  which,  running 
full  in  the  springtime,  now  showed  only  a  dry,  sandy 
bottom.  They  got  among  hills  before  they  came  to  the 
end  of  a  long  day's  march  and  made  camp  in  a  wide 
valley,  divided  by  the  bed  of  a  stream  of  such  size  that  it 
still  showed  shallow  pools  here  and  there. 

The  camp  was  made  with  care  and  no  fires  were 
allowed,  for  although  the  trail  was  old,  there  might  still 
be  hostile  scouts  looking  out  for  them.  The  horses  were 
picketed  in  a  long  hollow  and  the  eight  troops  bivouacked 
around  them,  in  readiness  to  stand  to  arms  at  an 
instant's  notice. 

At  daybreak  four  scouts  were  sent  forward  to  inspect 
the  country.  They  returned,  reporting  a  much  smaller 
but  fresh  trail  about  a  mile  up  the  valley,  cutting  into  the 
wide  one  from  the  east  and  then  following  it  along.  The 
tracks  showed  not  more  than  twenty-five  ponies  and  they 
must  have  passed  within  twenty-four  hours,  very  likely 
even  during  the  night. 

"Looks  as  if  they  had  cut  along  to  warn  the  main 
body  of  our  approach,"  said  Major  Home  to  Dick.  "It 
oughtn't  to  be  hard  to  overtake  them,  for  we  are  always 
better  mounted  than  the  Indians.  Though  we  haven't 
got  better  firearms,"  he  added  ruefully.  "Uncle  Sam  is 
very  thoughtful  about  supplying  them  with  the  means  of 
fighting  us." 

To  catch  this  small  flying  band  and  stop  them  before 
they  should  have  time  to  warn  the  main  body  of  Indians, 
a  small  and  mobile  force  was  better  than  a  large  one 
hampered  with  baggage.  C  Troop  was  detailed,  com- 
manded, in  the  absence  of  its  captain  who  was  on  leave, 
by  Lieutenant  Hazelton.  They  were  to  follow  up  the 
fresh  trail  as  rapidly  as  possible  and  cut  the  Indians  off 
from  communication  with  Bloody  Lance  and  his  village. 
Each  man  was  to  take  two  days'  rations  in  his  haversack. 


Isabel  Stirling  323 

"You  got  in  ahead  of  me,"  grumbled  Dick  to  his 
friend. 

"My  good  luck,"  said  Frank. 

Dick  looked  after  him  as  he  walked  away,  alert  and 
cheerful.  What  a  difference  it  made  in  him  to  be  up  and 
doing. 

Lieutenant  Hazelton  culled  out  a  dozen  men  whose 
horses  did  not  seem  perfectly  fresh  and,  with  the  sixty 
odd  who  remained,  was  soon  out  of  sight  around  the 
bend  of  the  low  hills,  while  the  main  body  followed  at 
a  slower,  though  steady  pace.  By  afternoon  the  route 
became  more  difficult.  The  ground  was  cut  up  by  ra- 
vines crossing  their  path  and  in  some  places  the  trail 
was  so  narrow  that  two  horses  could  not  go  abreast.  At 
some  distance  beyond  them  the  ground  rose  still  more 
steeply  and  so  high  that  from  the  lower  crests  they  could 
not  see  beyond;  nor  could  they,  as  yet,  hear  anything 
but  the  sounds  which  they  themselves  made.  Well- 
mounted  scouts  were  sent  on  ahead  to  climb  the  hill  and 
find  out,  if  possible,  whether  anything  was  happening  on 
the  other  side. 

Dick,  going  at  an  even  trot  along  one  of  the  infrequent 
stretches  of  fairly  smooth  ground,  found  his  thoughts 
suddenly  straying  far  away  from  the  things  which  might 
be  expected  to  engross  them.  Instead  of  wondering  what 
might  be  going  on  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  or  listen- 
ing for  the  sound  of  shots,  he  thought  of  the  time  when 
he  and  Isabel  first  met  on  the  edge  of  the  Fall  Creek 
gorge.  He  saw  her  as  she  looked  then,  glancing  up  at 
him  from  under  her  broad-brimmed  hat,  smiling  and 
blushing.  He  saw  her  in  a  series  of  pictures;  as  she 
looked  when,  proudly  defiant,  she  told  him  in  her 
father's  frowning  presence  that  she  would  marry  him; 
and  next,  so  adorably  shy  when  he  gave  her  his  first 
kiss — how  hard  it  had  been  to  get  her  used  to  his  kisses ! 
He  smiled  tenderly  as  he  remembered  that.  Then  the 
picture  of  her  as  she  stood,  in  her  bridal  whiteness,  at 
the  door  of  the  room  and  paused  for  an  instant  before 
she  came  to  him  to  join  hands  before  the  old  clergyman. 


324  Isabel  Stirling 

And  since  then!  What  a  comrade  she  had  been!  How 
plucky  and  gay  and  loving ;  never  misunderstanding  him 
for  a  moment,  not  even  when  he  had  been  such  a  fool 
with  Lily  just  now;  even  giving  him  back  his  friend. 
He  seemed  to  feel  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  her  fare- 
well kisses.  "Good  God!"  he  exclaimed  aloud.  "I 
wonder  if  the  two  troops  left  at  the  post  can  handle 
anything  that  comes.,,   .    .    . 

His  mind  suddenly  came  back  to  the  present  situation. 
Coming  faintly  over  the  hill  ahead  was  a  rat-a-tat  which 
sounded  as  though  somebody  was  clapping  shingles  to- 
gether. Four  small  black  figures  appeared  over  the  crest 
in  front  and,  as  they  rapidly  drew  closer,  he  could  make 
out  the  scouts,  rushing  their  horses  down  the  declivity 
toward  the  column  as  fast  as  they  could  gallop.  Colonel 
Raynor  and  the  adjutant  were  riding  by  the  troop  just 
ahead  of  B  Troop,  so  Dick  heard  the  report: 

"Down  in  the  valley  the  other  side  of  this  first  hill 
Lieutenant  Hazelton  and  his  men  are  in  it — five  or  six 
hundred  Indians  all  around  them,  front  and  rear  and 
flanks.  The  valley's  swarming  with  them.  Hazelton 
standing  them  off — but  we've  got  to  hurry,  for  he's  got 
poor  cover." 

Even  while  the  scouts  were  talking  the  Colonel  spoke 
a  few  quick  words  and  the  trumpeter  at  his  side  blared 
out  a  shrill  call. 

Before  its  echoes  had  died  away  the  long  column  of 
horsemen  which  stretched  nearly  half  a  mile  back  was 
breaking  up  in  apparent  disorder.  Orders  were  being 
shouted  and  repeated  down  its  length,  troop  trumpeters 
were  sounding  short,  sharp  calls,  and  the  whole  mass 
was  sorting  itself  out  at  a  gallop.  In  an  incredibly  short 
time  the  three  leading  troops  were  in  line  and  on  their 
flanks  and  to  the  rear  were  two  other  long  lines,  each  of 
two  troops.  The  three  leading  troops,  with  Dick  and 
B  Troop  in  the  centre,  trotted  forward  toward  the  sound 
of  the  firing,  two  hundred  horsemen  abreast,  the  long 
line  sagging  here  and  there  as  parts  of  it  met  stretches 
of  hard  going. 


Isabel  Stirling  325 

As  they  came  toward  the  top  they  could  hear  a  wild 
din  of  whoops  and  shouts,  weaving  into  the  continuous 
rattling  and  crackling  of  rifle  shots.  As  they  came  over 
the  crest  there  lay  before  them  a  more  gentle  slope,  de- 
scending to  a  narrow  valley  and  the  dry  bed  of  a  creek,, 
behind  which  the  ground  again  rose  steeply.  The  valley 
was  filled  with  a  horde  of  naked,  painted  savages,  lances 
brandished  on  high,  feathered  length  of  war-bonnets 
waving  to  the  wind,  and  in  nearly  every  warrior's  hand 
a  carbine  of  the  latest  improved  type.  Dashing  back  and 
forth  among  them  was  a  huge  naked  giant,  painted 
fiercely  and  mounted  on  a  great  black  war-horse,  cap- 
tured from  a  slain  trooper  in  some  former  battle — 
Bloody  Lance  himself.  Here  and  there,  on  the  further 
side  of  the  field,  were  fallen  Indians,  and  ponies  dead, 
or  writhing  in  their  last  agony,  and  others  running  loose, 
riderless.  In  the  deeper  part  of  the  gully,  around  which 
the  throng  revolved,  Hazelton  and  his  men  had  en- 
trenched themselves  behind  piles  of  saddles,  blanket-rolls 
and  dead  horses.  Their  horses  which  had  not  been  shot 
had  been  lost.  The  Indians  raced  around  and  past  them 
and  even  in  the  minute  that  the  men  on  the  hilltop  were 
watching,  a  few  score  savages,  formed  in  a  loose  body 
and  shrieking  and  yelling,  galloped  straight  at  the  little 
band  in  the  ravine.  The  sound  of  single  shots  rose  to  a 
continuous  rattle,  like  the  noise  made  by  a  small  boy 
drawing  a  board  across  a  picket  fence.  Dick  could  make 
out  Hazelton  walking  quietly  back  and  forth  behind  his 
men.  In  a  few  seconds  there  were  so  many  empty  sad- 
dles in  the  charging  force  that  the  survivors  veered  off 
and  rode  by  the  flanks  of  the  defenders,  shrieking  their 
defiance  and  shooting  their  carbines  as  they  galloped. 

"Pretty  work,"  muttered  Dick  to  himself.  "Good  old 
C  Troop!" 

Colonel  Raynor,  riding  in  front  of  the  three  troops 
on  the  hilltop,  turned  to  his  adintant  "We've  go*  to  get 
down  there  quick,"  he  said.  "Tell  the  two  troops  back 
there  on  the  right  to  follow  right  in  and  mix  it  up.  Tell 
Major  Home  to  keep  his  two  troops  on  the  left  out  of 


326  Isabel  Stirling 

it  and  wait  developments.  .  .  .  Trumpeter,  sound  the 
charge !" 

Down  the  slope  charged  the  troops,  yelling  and  cheer- 
ing. From  the  gully  came  an  answering  cheer  which 
blended  with  the  pounding  of  the  hoofs  and  the  rattling 
of  the  rifle-shots. 

Now  lack  of  organization  told  against  the  Indians. 
With  this  new  and  more  formidable  foe  sweeping  down 
on  them,  they  galloped  about  in  wild  confusion,  each 
man  for  himself.  Some  circled  around  the  ends  of  the 
line  which  was  held  by  Hazelton's  troop  and  crossed  to 
the  farther  side  of  the  gully.  Others  apparently  had 
some  intention  of  standing  to  meet  the  charge.  Most 
of  them  galloped  around  with  no  order  or  purpose. 

As  the  charging  line  drew  near  to  the  scattered  and 
confused  Indians,  the  troopers  began  to  shoot  at  them 
with  their  revolvers,  without  for  an  instant  slackening 
their  gallop.  The  Indians  replied  with  their  carbines, 
even  those  who  were  in  full  flight  from  the  rushing 
avalanche,  turning  in  their  saddles  to  shoot  back.  Here 
and  there  a  trooper  reeled  in  his  saddle  or  fell  to  the 
ground,  but  the  line  rushed  on  unchecked.  In  another 
moment  the  whole  scattered  force  of  the  Indians  was 
making  its  escape  across  the  gully  and  up  the  opposite 
hill.  Hazelton  and  his  dismounted  men  could  not,  at 
first,  fire  at  them,  for  fear  of  shooting  into  the  approach- 
ing troops,  but  as  they  swept  past  his  flanks  and  up  the 
slope,  C  Troop's  carbines  took  heavy  toll. 

When  the  charge  had  swept  down  to  the  gully  it  was 
checked.  The  obstacle  was  too  deep  and  the  banks  too 
precipitous  for  troopers  to  ride  over  and  keep  any  sem- 
blance of  order,  and  Colonel  Raynor  had  no  mind  to 
let  scattered  and  disorganized  groups  of  men  go  swarm- 
ing up  the  hill  with  no  more  cohesion  than  the  Indians 
themselves  had.  The  halt  was  sounded  and,  an  instant 
later,  the  dismount.  "Line  the  bank  of  the  gully,,,  was 
the  order,  "and  open  fire!,,  And,  to  an  orderly,  his 
command  was:  "Back  to  Major  Home  now  —  quick! 
Tell  him  to  cross  with  his  command  'way  up  there  to 


Isabel  Stirling  327 

the  left,  where  the  ravine  is  flattened  out  a  bit — to  go 
on  beyond  there  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  then  swing  in  and 
hit  'em  on  the  flank,  charging  right  across  our  front. 
Tell  him  we'll  mount  and  go  ahead  when  we  see  him 
begin  to  swing  in.    That'll  fix  'em." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  group  of  officers  at  his  side. 
"Now  then,"  he  said,  "slow  fire.  You  see  they've  begun 
to  stop  running  on  that  slope  yonder  and  we  don't  want 
to  drive  'em  too  far  before  Home  gets  in.  Let  'em 
think  we're  short  of  ammunition  or  afraid  of  'em — any- 
thing they  like." 

Between  the  troops  which  had  just  swept  down  and 
the  men  whom  they  had  rescued  there  was  no  time  for 
congratulations  or  thanks  for  their  deliverance.  The  job 
was  only  half  done.  When  the  fresh  troops  had  swept 
into  the  gully,  some  of  Hazelton's  men,  in  their  excite- 
ment, had  climbed  out  and  started  on  foot  to  pursue  the 
fleeing  Indians  up  the  slope.  Hazelton  and  his  sergeants 
had,  by  much  shouting  at  them,  got  them  back  to  the 
gully,  to  wait  until  the  real  advance  should  begin;  all 
except  one  man  who  had  been  the  foremost.  Running 
on  ahead  of  the  others  he  had  not  known  that  his  com- 
rades had  stopped  and  gone  back.  As  order  began  to 
emerge  from  the  momentary  confusion  of  establishing 
the  line  in  the  gully  and  getting,  the  horses  under  cover, 
Hazelton  saw  his  trumpeter  lying  on  the  ground  a  hun- 
dred yards  up  the  slope.  At  almost  the  same  instant, 
from  a  group  of  dismounted  Indians  hugging  the  ground 
farther  up,  one  man  sprang  up  and  ran  toward  the 
fallen  soldier. 

"Get  him !"  Hazelton  jerked  out  to  his  men. 

A  burst  of  scattered  shots  rang  out,  but  the  Indian 
ran  unhurt,  brandishing  his  knife  in  the  air.  Hazelton 
grabbed  a  carbine  from  the  trooper  nearest  him  and 
started  toward  the  trumpeter.  Ten  feet  away  he  fired 
his  carbine  from  his  hip,  still  running.  The  Indian 
staggered,  but  came  on,  his  knife  drawn  back  for  a 
lunge.  They  met  at  the  man's  body.  Hazelton  ducked 
to  one  side,  seized  his  carbine  with  both  hands  at  the 


328  Isabel  Stirling 

muzzle  and  swung  the  butt  down  like,  a  sledgehammer 
on  the  Indian's  head,  killing  him  instantly.  Falling  in 
a  heap  with  the  dead  man  from  the  force  of  his  own 
blow,  he  quickly  regained  his  feet  and  knelt  down  by 
the  trumpeter.  iThe  man  was  still  living.  He  picked 
him  up,  slung  him  over  his  back  and  started  back  to 
his  line  at  a  trot,  while  a  fusillade  rang  out  from  the 
Indians. 

In  the  meantime  a  dozen  soldiers  had  sprung  out  of 
the  gulley  here  and  there,  and  rushed  forward  to  help 
him,  but  because  of  the  difficulty  of  getting  a  horse  up 
the  steep  bank  and  into  the  open,  all  of  them  were  dis- 
mounted. Dick,  watching  the  scene  in  the  instant  of  its 
happening,  had  flung  himself  on  Defiance,  picked  out  a 
low  place  in  the  bank  and  jumped  his  horse  up.  Now, 
from  far  off  on  the  right,  he  was  galloping  toward 
Frank,  using  his  spurs  as  Defiance  had  never  felt  them 
before.  He  quickly  outdistanced  the  men  on  foot,  but 
tearing  down  the  slope  toward  him  came  another  horse- 
man, a  splendid  savage  figure,  naked,  shining  with  grease 
and  sweat,  the  long  plumes  of  his  war-bonnet  streaming 
out  behind  him — Bloody  Lance,  on  his  powerful  black 
horse. 

The  Indians  stopped  firing,  lest  they  hit  their  Chief. 
The  soldiers  stopped  too,  as  the  two  horsemen  raced 
toward  the  same  point.  Dick  had  seen  instantly  that 
until  Bloody  Lance  was  disposed  of  there  was  no  rescue 
for  Frank.  He  altered  his  course  and  made  straight, 
for  the  charging  chief.  The  galloping  animals  met, 
and  passed  so  close  that  their  riders'  knees  brushed  each 
other.  As  they  came  together  Dick  fired  his  revolver 
and  the  Indian  his  carbine.  Both  riders  remained  steady 
in  their  saddles  as  they  swept  by  and  their  horses  carried 
them  apart. 

With  rein  and  voice  and  knees  Dick  stopped  Defiance 
so  sharply  that  the  horse  went  down  on  his  haunches. 
Then  he  swung  him  about  and  started  back  to  meet  the 
Indian  again.  Bloody  Lance  was  struggling  to  stop  his 
horse  and  face  his  antagonist  in  the  same  way,  but  had 


Isabel  Stirling  329 

not  yet  succeeded,  so  that  Dick  rode  at  him  from  behind. 
As  he  came  up,  the  Indian  turned  in  his  saddle.  Dick 
aimed  his  revolver,  but  did  not  fire,  waiting  until  they 
should  be  close  enough  to  make  certain  of  not  missing.  He 
did  not  fire  at  all.  Suddenly  the  fierce  leer  on  the  Indian's 
face  changed  to  an  expression  of  angry  disappointment. 
His  body  sagged  and,  with  the  next  jump  of  his  horse, 
fell  to  the  ground,  almost  under  Defiance's  hoofs. 
Dick  slipped  his  revolver  back  in  the  holster  and  rode 
toward  Frank,  who  had  now  almost  got  back  to  safety. 
Two  of  the  dismounted  men  reached  him  almost  at  the 
same  time.  A  score  of  others,  mounted  and  dismounted, 
were  swarming  out  of  the  gully.  An  instant's  glance 
showed  Dick  that  the  man  Frank  was  carrying  was  dead 
and  that  Frank  himself  was  hit. 

"Put  him  down,  old  man,"  he  said.  "These  men  will 
take  him,  and  you  get  on  this  horse." 

Frank  relinquished  his  burden  and  said  stupidly: 
"Never  mind.  Give  me  your  stirrup  and  I'll  be  all 
right." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Dick.  "You  .  .  .  catch 
him  there,  quick!"  He  called  out  to  one  of  the  men 
who  had  just  come  up,  as  Frank  began  to  sway  on  his 
feet.     "Lift  him  up  here  over  the  front  of  the  saddle." 

And  so,  with  his  friend's  dead  body  across  the  neck 
of  his  horse,  and  shots  spattering  all  about  him,  he  rode 
back  to  the  line.  When  they  lifted  Frank  off  the  horse, 
laid  him  on  the  ground,  and  covered  his  face,  Dick  slid 
from  the  saddle.  As  his  feet  touched  the  ground  his 
knees  gave  Way  for  an  instant,  but  he  steadied  himself 
with  his  arm  over  the  horse's  neck. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  Colonel  anxiously. 
"Are  you  hit?" 

"Yes.  I  think  he  got  me  when  we  came  together 
there.  He  never  knew  it  though,"  he  added  with  a  little 
smile. 

Then  his  hold  on  the  horse's  neck  relaxed  and  he  slid 
down  to  the  ground.  An  hour  later  he  died,  shot 
through  the  lungs. 


PART  FOUR 


LXI 


Isabel  had  once  read  an  imaginative  description  of 
drowned  men  who  never  reached  the  bottom  of  the  sea, 
but  remained  in  its  middle  depths,  endlessly  swaying  to 
and  fro.  The  description  came  back  to  her  now,  and  it 
was  she  herself  who  was  suspended,  unable,  try  as  she 
would,  to  find  anything  solid  under  her  feet.  The  voices 
of  affection  came  to  her  as  from  an  immense  distance 
and  through  an  impenetrable  mist.  There  were  times 
when  she  appeared  to  herself  to  be  two  persons,  the  one 
who  could  neither  sink  altogether  in  those  horrible 
depths,  nor  yet  rise  above  them,  and  the  other  who 
guarded  the  poor  wretch  from  making  a  sound  of  self- 
betrayal.  Yet  to  the  friends  anxiously  watching  her, 
she  appeared  self-controlled  and  sane,  but  so  aloof  that 
their  affection  could  not  reach  her. 

In  the  end,  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  Dr.  Brenton's 
hand  which  grasped  hers  and  pulled  her  up. 

She  was  living  with  him ;  that  was  taken  by  them  both 
as  a  matter  of  course.  It  was  to  him  that  her  spirit 
clung  when  she  began  to  come  back  to  life.  Lydia  wrote 
to  her — a  letter  overflowing  with  the  proper  sentiments, 
with  perhaps  some  real  feeling  underneath  the  phrases. 
She  begged  Isabel  to  come  to  them,  "at  least  for  a  time," 
adding,  "Your  dear  father  wishes  me  to  ask  you." 
Isabel  did  not  refuse  to  make  the  visit — simply  pushed 
it  aside.  When  Cassie,  whose  grief  was  only  less  than 
her  own,  came  back  from  New  York  a  second  time  to 
persuade  her  to  go  home  with  her,  she  went;  but  re- 
turned quickly.  Cassie  had  her  own  life  to  live  and 
much  happiness  still  left  to  her.    Isabel  was  glad  of  that, 


Isabel  Stirling  331 

and  some  day  she  might  not  mind  looking  on.  Just  now 
all  she  wanted  was  Uncle  Brenton. 

When  she  had  emerged  somewhat  from  her  apathy 
she  could  shed  a  few  tears  in  Mrs.  Gifford's  motherly 
embrace,  but  talking,  and  not  tears,  relieved  her  then, 
and  it  was  to  Dr.  Brenton  that  she  could  sometimes  talk 
of  Dick.  Always  she  was  to  look  back  to  the  drives 
with  him  over  the  country  roads,  up  and  down  the  hills, 
waiting  in  a  sort  of  stupid  blank  patience  while  he 
stopped  in  this  or  that  house  on  professional  visits.  He 
kept  her  out  of  doors  as  much  as  possible. 

"It  is  curious,"  she  said  to  him  one  day,  "how  my  life 
has  been  lived  in  episodes,  and  how  definitely  a  door  has 
closed  on  each  one  when  it  has  ended.  Miss  Pryor's 
school  was  such  a  dear  world  to  me.  When  I  left  there 
it  was  as  if  I  had  crossed  a  gulf.  To  be  sure,  Miss 
Pryor  has  written  me  some  wonderful  letters,  and  Mar- 
garet and  I  write  occasionally,  and  there  have  been 
wedding  cards  now  and  then,  but  the  life  was  ended. 
And  it  had  been  so  very  real  and  vivid.  And  then  the 
parsonage.  And  now  all  my  army  life  and  friends. 
I  love  them — and  I  loved  it  all.  Oh,  Uncle  Brenton !" 
she  broke  out  passionately.  "Dick  loved  it  so !  He  loved 
his  life — better,  I'm  sure,  than  he  could  love  any  other. 
I  suppose — I  believe — he  is  living  somewhere.  I  can't 
believe  that  anything  so  alive  as  he  was  could  be  just 
snuffed  out — but  I'm  sure  he  loved  this  best — and  me! 
It's  so  cruelly  unjust,  not  merely  to  me,  but  to  him." 

How  could  he  answer  her,  when,  in  truth,  he  felt 
very  much  as  she  did? 

"My  dear,"  he  said  at  last,  "you've  got  to  hold  on 
to  something.  You've  got  to  believe  that  even  if  one 
doesn't  want  to  go  away  from  what  one  knows  and  cares 
for,  it  won't  be  to  a  cold,  unnatural  place.  There  may 
be  pleasant  natural  comfort  there  too — and  good  work 
to  do." 

"He  hasn't  got  me!  And  then — oh,  my  point  of  view 
is  of  the  earth — I  can't  feel  that  any  joys  of  an  im- 
material existence  can  make  up  for  the  warm,  bodily, 


332  Isabel  Stirling 

human  touch.  If  I  could  feel  his  hand  on  mine!"  She 
broke  into  unusual  tears.    .    .    . 

Another  day  he  asked  if  she  didn't  want  her  friend 
Margaret  to  visit  her. 

"I  used  to  want  her,"  she  answered,  "but  there  never 
seemed  to  be  a  right  time  for  Lydia  to  have  her.  Now 
— I  don't  want  her  quite  yet.     I  only  want  you." 

"Don't  you  ever  feel  like  writing?"  he  asked  at  an- 
other time.  "You  might  write  something  now  that  you 
would  be  glad  to  acknowledge." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  haven't  any  mind,"  she  said. 
"At  least,  not  any  consecutive  mind.  No,  I  want  no 
companion  but  you,  and  no  occupation  but  driving  about 
with  you — as  long  as  you'll  have  me." 

One  Sunday  morning,  during  the  first  months  of  her 
bereavement,  Dr.  Brenton  was  startled  to  see  her  come 
downstairs,  as  the  church  bells  were  ringing,  dressed  in 
her  formal  mourning  costume,  with  bonnet  and  veil. 

"Going  to  church?"  he  asked. 

She  stood  hesitating  in  the  doorway.  "I  suppose  so," 
she  said.  "I  don't  really  want  to,  but — Dr.  Harrison 
was  so  very  nice  to  me  when  he  came  to  see  me.  I  sup- 
pose I  am  doing  it  out  of  politeness  to  him." 

"Want  me  to  go  along?" 

"No.     If  you  don't  mind,  I'd  rather  go  by  myself." 

In  fact,  Dr.  Harrison  had  shown  much  tact  at  the 
time  when,  without  urgency,  he  had  suggested  to  her 
the  consolations  of  religion. 

"I  am  not  religious,"  she  had  said  to  him  frankly, 
"and  when  people  talk  about  resignation  and  about  being 
'reconciled',  they  only  make  me  angry.  I  think  one  bears 
a  thing  because  one  has  to.  There's  nothing  else  to  do 
about  it." 

He  did  not  press  her,  showed  no  disapproval,  didn't 
even  ask  her  to  go  to  church.  And  now  she  was  going, 
simply  to  show  him  her  gratitude. 

She  got  there  early  and  slipped  into  the  Maiden  pew 
without  meeting  anyone.  In  the  bottom  of  her  heart 
was  a  little  hope  that  she  might  find  some  comfort.    But 


Isabel  Stirling  333 

the  churchgoing  was  not  a  success.  Stifling  behind  her 
heavy  veil,  she  did  not  dare  raise  it  because  she  found 
her  composure  leaving  her.  The  music  brought  tears 
which  she  struggled  to  control.  The  pew  was  conspicu- 
ous and  she  was  well  aware  of  the  sympathetic  glances 
which  were  sure  to  be  turned  on  her.  Not  for  anything 
would  she  break  down.  And  why,  she  wondered,  with 
a  flash  of  anger,  why  must  there  be  such  an  insistent 
physical  side  to  the  emotions  of  the  soul?  Why  must 
the  tears  streaming  from  her  eyes  also  involve  the 
swabbing  of  her  nose?  She  rebelled  against  her  body; 
and  her  struggles  with  it  quite  precluded  any  sense  of 
spiritual  uplifting.  During  the  sermon,  which  she 
scarcely  heard,  she  at  last  compelled  herself  to  a  stony 
composure  and  sat  waiting  with  what  patience  she  could 
compel,  for  the  ordeal  to  be  over.  It  was  only  just  at 
the  end  when,  kneeling,  she  happened  to  turn  her  head 
a  little,  that  she  became  aware  that  Lily  Hazelton  was 
sitting  in  the  pew  beside  hers.  Lily  was  kneeling,  her  long 
veil  flowing  back — and  surely  there  never  were  mourn- 
ing garments  so  black  as  Lily's — her  fair,  sad  face  up- 
turned, eyes  closed,  hands  clasped,  a  lovely  image  of 
Grief  assuaged  by  Religion. 

A  wave  of  repulsion  swept  over  Isabel.  So  she  and 
Lily  had  been  sitting  side  by  side  all  through  the  ser- 
vice. She  had  forgotten  where  the  Brainards  had  their 
pew.  She  knew  how  the  tableau  had  gratified  Lily  and 
could  feel  the  unction  with  which  she  had  regarded  the 
touching  sight  which  they  must  have  presented — the  two 
beautiful  young  women  widowed  by  the  same  cruel  blow. 
She  had  already  endured  much  from  Lily  and  had  been 
hard  put  to  it  to  evade  her.  She  couldn't,  positively 
she  couldn't  bear  to  be  spoken  to  by  her  after  the  ser- 
vice was  over — nor  by  anybody  else.  Abruptly  she  rose 
from  her  knees  and  quickly  and  quietly  made  her  way 
down  the  aisle  and  out  of  the  door.  Oh,  no!  she 
wouldn't  try  it  again. 

As  regarded  the  great  issue  she  had  not  failed  in 
generosity.    Dick  had  given  his  life  for  his  friend  and 


334  Isabel  Stirling 

he  would  not  have  been  Dick  if  he  had  held  back.  Even 
in  her  bitterest  grief  she  knew  that.  But  must  she  then 
take  Lily  into  a  close  partnership  for  the  rest  of  her 
life?  She  had  never  been  a  match  for  Lily's  clinging 
determination,  but  she  vowed  now  to  release  herself. 

Yet  out  of  all  her  rebellious  and  unsuccessful  experi- 
ments Isabel  did  bring  a  tangible  though  unorthodox 
creed.  She  believed,  as  she  had  said,  that  her  husband 
still  lived — somewhere.  There  were  moments  when  she 
could  fancy  that  she  felt  his  presence  near  her.  She 
thought  that  if  she  could  only  be  good  enough  she  would 
join  him  some  day.  But  being  good  didn't  mean  going 
to  church,  or  even  saying  one's  prayers,  but  living  up 
to  his  standards.  Hadn't  she  once  told  him  that  it  was 
good  for  the  soul  to  live  with  him  ?  Well,  what  she  had 
to  do  now  was  to  live  up  to  him,  as  far  as  she  could. 
She  promised  herself  that  since  she  accepted  no  dicta- 
tion from  outside,  she  would  always  respect  her  own 
scruples.  She  would  follow  the  light  that  she  saw,  and 
perhaps  it  would  grow  brighter.  She  evolved  the  theory 
that  if  she  did  not  make  the  spiritual  side  of  her  nature 
dominate  the  material  side,  there  could  be  no  reunion 
with  Dick,  who  himself  must  be  constantly  advancing. 
So  she  made  her  vows.  But  she  could  not,  after  all, 
see  anything  pleasant  in  the  future  existence.  It  was 
only  that  she  must  try  to  be  where  Dick  was. 


LXII 

One  day  Dr.  Brenton  asked  Isabel  if  she  would  help 
him  with  a  little  matter  of  bookkeeping.  "You  ought 
to  learn  something  about  business,"  he  said,  "and  this 
would  be  a  real  help  to  me." 

To  her  surprise,  she  developed  an  aptitude  for  the 
details  of  affairs.  Gradually  she  assumed  more  and 
more  the  position  of  a  secretary;  and  it  was  then  that 
she  really  came  to  appreciate  the  benevolence  of  a 
country  doctor.  The  calls  he  made  and  the  calls  which 
were  made  on  him  were  duly  noted,  but  when  it  came 
to  making  out  bills  she  was  continually  told  that  this 
bill  was  to  be  made  smaller  than  his  very  moderate 
regular  price  and  that  one  was  not  to  be  sent  at  all. 
In  the  matter  of  new  babies  his  charges  were  always 
extraordinarily  low. 

"I  don't  believe  in  making  it  so  expensive  to  have 
children,"  he  said.  "Of  course  one  might  say  that  when 
a  woman  pays  so  exorbitantly  in  her  own  person,  a 
man  might  well  pay  a  good  sum  out  of  his  pocket.  But 
among  people  in  moderate  circumstances — as  the  major- 
ity of  people  are  in  a  place  like  this — it  comes  out  of 
the  woman  in  the  end.  She  is  the  one  who  works  a 
little  harder  and  does  without  things  a  little  more  to 
pay  the  doctor.  No,  we'll  let  the  babies  into  the  world 
as  cheaply  as  we  can,  poor  little  souls." 

"And  oh,  if  I  only  had  a  baby!"  sighed  Isabel  in 
her  heart. 

From  seeing  their  names  on  the  books  she  grew  to 
take  an  interest  in  some  of  the  patients.  There  was  a 
Mrs.  Barnes  to  whom  the  doctor's  visits  never  ceased. 
Nor  did  he  ever  send  her  a  bill. 

"But  she  has  a  nice  little  house,"  said  Isabel,  who 
had  spent  many  half-hours  waiting  in  the  buggy  at  that 

335 


336  Isabel  Stirling 

gate.  "I  believe  she  could  pay  something,  and  perhaps 
if  she  had  to  do  that,  she  would  get  well." 

"Possibly  it  might  have  been  so  at  one  time,"  said 
the  doctor.     "But  not  now." 

At  the  moment,  they  were  driving  up  a  long  hill,  the 
reins  lying  on  the  horse's  neck.  Above  them,  a  little 
breeze  went  sighing  through  the  trees,  detaching  the 
red  and  yellow  leaves  which  dropped  slowly,  flecking 
the  road  before  them.  It  was  a  woodland  road  and  the 
day  was  lovely  and  mild.  Isabel's  black  hat  cast  a 
shadow  over  her  eyes,  but  did  not  hide  the  curve  of 
her  cheek.  Dr.  Brenton,  looking  around  at  her,  rejoiced 
that  the  cheek  had  regained  its  perfect  outline  and  was 
tinted  with  its  former  loveliness.  Now,  after  nearly  a 
year  and  a  half  of  his  care,  the  child  was  really  well, 
he  said  to  himself.  That  her  eyes  were  grave  and  the 
line  of  her  lips  sad  was  no  more  than  must  be  expected. 
No,  her  face  would  never  be  quite  as  it  had  been  be- 
fore. He  sighed  and  wondered  what  life  would  yet 
bring  her.     She  was  still  so  near  the  beginning. 

"So  she  really  has  something  the  matter  now?"  said 
Isabel. 

The  doctor  gathered  up  the  reins  before  he  answered. 
They  had  got  to  the  top  of  the  hill  and  were  now  start- 
ing down  on  the  other  side,  toward  a  group  of  houses 
dominated  by  a  country  store. 

"Yes,"  he  said  soberly,  "there's  something  the  matter 
now." 

They  drew  up  at  Mrs.  Barnes's  house  and  he  gave 
the  reins  to  Isabel  and  got  out.  She  watched  him  as 
he  opened  the  gate  and  went  up  the  path  and  into  the 
door,  and  then  settled  herself  for  a  long  wait.  Mrs. 
Barnes  always  kept  the  doctor  as  long  as  she  could. 
He  was  too  good  to  her,  Isabel  thought.  But  then  he 
was  always  too  good  to  everybody,  to  herself  most  of 
all.  What  would  she  have  done  without  him,  all  this 
long,  dreadful  time?  Her  eyes  moistened.  If  only  she 
could  really  make  it  up  to  him!  Then  she  smiled. 
Yes,  she  thought  she  could  be  sure  that  Uncle  Brenton 


Isabel  Stirling  337 

was  far  happier  with  her  than  without  her.  She  thought 
he  would  be  glad  if  she  would  take  a  little  more  inter- 
est in  some  of  his  poor  people  and  she  resolved  to  do 
it  for  his  sake.  She  told  him  so  when  at  last  he  came 
out  and,  taking  the  reins  from  her,  turned  Dolly's  head 
toward  home. 

"I  know  I've  been  self-absorbed  and  horrid,"  she  said, 
"and  you  have  been  an  angel  of  patience  with  me.  I've 
been  sitting  out  here  remorsing  over  my  sins  and  making 
good  resolutions,  and  I'm  going  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf 
now  and  try  to  be  a  little  real  help.  I'll  make  some 
clothes  for  those  twin  babies  and  go  to  see  them  in  their 
horrid  little  smelly  house.  I'm  sure  it's  smelly.  It  looks 
it  from  the  outside.  But  I'll  do  that  and  anything  else 
you  want  me  to  do." 

He  smiled  at  her  affectionately.  "Good  girl,"  he  said. 
"Don't  get  so  busy  that  you  won't  have  time  for  me. 
You  don't  know  what  it  is  for  me  to  have  you  to  come 
back  to,  when  I  come  out  of  the  houses." 

She  thought  there  was  an  unusual  gravity  behind  his 
smile.     "Is  Mrs.  Barnes  really  very  ill?"  she  asked. 

"Yes."  He  did  not  usually  discuss  the  ailments  of 
his  patients  with  her,  but  this  time  he  went  on.  "She 
is  hopelessly  ill  and  she  begs  for  an  operation.  It  won't 
do  any  good." 

"Then  you  won't  do  it?" 

"I  can't  refuse.  If  there  were  any  hope  it  would  be 
an  operation — and  she  won't  believe  that  there  isn't. 
She  insists,  and  I've  told  her  I'd  do  it.  A  country  doc- 
tor has  to  be  a  surgeon,  too,  in  an  emergency.  If  we 
only  had  a  hospital — or  any  trained  nurses.  The  day 
will  come  when  even  country  towns  will  have  them,  and 
I  hope  I'll  be  here." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  be  a  trained  nurse  and  help 
you?" 

"You?  Heaven  forbid!  You've  no  vocation  for  it 
— and  you  need  a  pretty  loud  call  to  keep  you  up  to  it. 
I'd  never  interfere  if  you  had  the  call,  but  believe  me, 
you  never  will  have  it." 


338  Isabel  Stirling 

She  persisted  in  playing  with  the  perfectly  new  idea. 
"I'd  like  to  help  you,"  she  said. 

"It  would  have  to  be  a  different  motive  from  that," 
he  replied.  "Either  a  distinct  vocation,  or  else  a  finan- 
cial necessity  which  compels  one  to  drill  oneself  into 
efficiency.  You  have  neither.  You  have  other  things — 
the  things  which  make  you  a  heart's  delight.  So  be 
satisfied." 

"I  ought  to  be."  She  had  a  glow  at  her  heart  warmer 
than  anything  she  had  felt  since  she  lost  Dick. 

Dr.  Brenton  flicked  his  whip  at  a  willing  horse.  "I've 
got  to  make  haste.  This  thing  must  be  done  at  once. 
I  must  get  a  man  to  help  me — Denham,  if  I  can  find 
him — and  some  sort  of  a  nurse." 

"Drop  me  anywhere." 

"No,  you  can  hold  Dolly  while  I  stop  at  one  or  two 
places." 

They  found  Dr.  Denham  and  a  nurse  of  sorts,  whom 
Denham  was  to  take  out  with  him.  Then  Dr.  Brenton 
went  home  and  got  the  things  he  needed  and  was  off 
again,  telling  Isabel  not  to  expect  him  until  she  saw 
him.  Norah  would  have  something  for  him  to  eat  when- 
ever he  might  come  in. 

Isabel  was  left  with  an  unusual  sense  of  excitement 
and  dread,  almost  as  if  illness  had  come  into  her  own 
circle  of  life.  She  wandered  about  the  house,  unable 
to  settle  down  to  anything;  and  although  she  reproached 
herself  for  it,  she  felt  a  sort  of  resentment  at  Mrs. 
Barnes,  who  would  not  take  the  doctor's  word  for  it 
that  this  was  all  useless.  "Poor  soul,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, "I  ought  not  to  blame  her  for  grasping  at  a  straw." 
Yet  the  feeling  of  resentment  persisted, 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  when  Dr.  Brenton 
got  back.  He  looked  tired  and  Isabel  would  not  ask  a 
question.  He  went  into  his  office  and  closed  the  door 
and  she  sat  down  on  a  chair  in  the  hall  and  waited.  As 
he  did  not  come  out,  she  knocked  at  last. 

"Won't  you  come  and  have  some  lunch?"  she  called. 

He  came  out  presently,  patted  her  on  the  shoulder 


Isabel  Stirling  339 

and  went  with  her  to  the  dining-room.  At  the  door  he 
paused.  "Of  course  you  want  to  know,"  he  said.  "The 
poor  soul  is  gone — never  came  out  from  the  anaesthetic. 
And  very  lucky  for  her.  She  understood  quite  well 
what  might  happen." 
"Had  you  operated?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  had  operated.    Now  come  and  talk  to  me." 
She  talked  to  him  and  saw  him  grow  more  cheerful; 
yet  her  resentment  against  Mrs.  Barnes  persisted. 


LXIII 

For  the  first  time  in  Isabel's  remembrance,  Dr.  Bren- 
ton  was  not  well.  Tired  he  had  often  been  and  willing 
sometimes  to  lie  down  on  a  sofa  for  a  matter  of  half 
an  hour,  but  never  ill.  He  said  he  was  not  ill  now, 
said  it  in  an  irritable  tone  which  she  had  never  heard 
before;  and  when  she  touched  his  hand  it  was  hot.  It 
was  swollen  too,  and  there  was  an  angry  mark  on  it. 

"What's  that?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  nothing."     He  drew  the  hand  away. 

"Did  you  cut  yourself  the  other  day?"  she  asked 
quickly. 

"It  isn't  a  cut,"  he  answered  sharply.  Never  had 
he  spoken  to  her  in  that  tone. 

Then  he  went  to  the  kitchen  door  and  told  Norah  to 
tell  Michael  to  bring  the  horse  around.  When  Isabel 
turned  to  get  the  hat  and  coat  which  always  hung  in 
the  hall  closet,  he  stopped  her,  saying,  with  all  his  usual 
gentleness: 

"Not  this  time,  Isabel.  I'm  taking  Michael  this 
morning." 

She  stood  looking  after  them  blankly.  What  could 
be  the  matter?     She  felt  that  something  menaced. 

And  then  her  spirit  rose  in  arms  against  the  threat, 
whatever  it  might  be.  Of  course  there  couldn't  really 
be  anything  the  matter — and  if  Uncle  Brenton  wanted, 
once  in  a  way,  to  be  cross,  why  shouldn't  he?  Only — 
she  wished  he  would  do  something  about  that  swollen 
hand. 

To  distract  her  mind,  she  got  her  gardening  tools  and 
some  tulip  bulbs  which  had  arrived  the  day  before  and 
went  out  to  plant  them.  She  had  told  Uncle  Brenton 
that  she  was  going  to  make  the  bare  patch  below  his 
office  windows  into  a  place  of  beauty,   so   she  went 

340 


Isabel  Stirling  341 

around  to  the  back  of  the  house  and,  setting  herself  to 
work,  managed  to  keep  her  apprehension  down  below 
the  surface  of  her  mind.  She  was  planting  the  last 
bulb  when  she  heard  her  name  spoken. 

"Mrs.  Maiden !"  said  the  voice. 

She  looked  up.  Dr.  Denham  "was  standing  behind 
her.  Throwing  down  her  trowel,  she  stood  up,  all  the 
anxiety  which  she  had  so  carefully  concealed  from  her 
own  view  now  possessing  her.  She  looked  at  Dr.  Den- 
ham with  terrified  eyes. 

"I  know,"  she  said.     "He  is  dreadfully  ill." 

"Not  dreadfully  ill,"  he  answered,  in  his  professional 
reassuring  voice,  "but  we  must  take  care  of  him." 

She  fixed  him  with  her  eyes.  He  said  to  someone 
afterward:  "You  can't  tell  that  woman  any  lies." 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "absolutely  everything." 

He  told  her.  Dr.  Brenton  had  not  exactly  cut  his 
hand,  but  in  tying  an  artery  the  thread  had  cut  halfway 
through  the  skin.  In  an  ordinary  case  it  mightn't  have 
done  any  harm,  but  Mrs.  Barnes's  case  was  a  bad  one. 
The  operation  ought  never  to  have  been  insisted  on. 
Well,  it  might  not  do  fatal  harm,  but  he  wouldn't  con- 
ceal from  her  that  it  was  a  serious  matter.  If  Dr. 
Brenton  were  twenty  years  younger  it  would  be  less 
serious. 

"He  isn't  old,"  said  Isabel. 

"No,"  said  Dr.  Denham,  "but  he  isn't  young  exactly." 

Then  he  told  her  just  what  the  treatment  must  be. 
"We'll  fight  it  for  all  we  are  worth,"  he  said. 

Isabel's  hands,  hanging  by  her  sides,  clenched.  "Yes !" 
she  answered. 

To  herself  she  vowed  to  fight  and  win.  To  lose! 
she  refused  to  face  the  thought. 

She  did  not  decline  the  services  of  a  nurse.  "I  will 
have  all  the  help  I  can,"  she  said.  "And  I  don't  care 
how  much  trouble  anybody  takes."  She  herself  rose 
marvelously  to  the  need. 

"I'll  never  say  again  that  you  can't  nurse,"  said  Dr. 
Brenton,  trying  to  smile  at  her  through  his  nightmare 


342  Isabel  Stirling 

of  fever  and  confusion.  "You're  a  trained  nurse  by 
accident."  And  then,  as  he  closed  his  eyes  again  wearily: 
"But  don't  go  and  fancy  it's  your  vocation.  It's  only 
that  I'm  your  vocation  just  now." 

They  fought  for  a  week  of  grim  days  and  grimmer 
nights.  He  knew,  himself,  that  it  was  a  losing  fight, 
but  Isabel  would  not  believe  it.  The  worse  he  grew 
the  more  she  set  her  teeth  and  said  that  it  should  not 
be  so. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  to  her.  "Sorry  for  myself,  for 
I  was  taking  an  uncommon  interest  in  life  lately  and 
was  so  happy  with  you,  Isabel — and  I'm  sorrier  for 
you,  my  dear,  than  I  am  for  myself.     It's  hard  on  you." 

"Oh,  Uncle  Brenton!"  she  said  desperately.  "Can't 
you  fight?    Can't  you  fight?" 

He  had  closed  his  eyes  and  seemed  drifting  away  from 
her.  He  opened  them  again  at  her  appeal.  "I've  been 
fighting,  my  child — fighting  all  I  could.  But  it's  no 
use."  He  roused  himself  with  an  effort  of  will.  "We've 
got  to  face  it,  Isabel,  you  and  I.  You'll  have  to  do 
without  me,  poor  child.  Don't  stay  alone — but  better 
alone  than  with  people  you  don't  want.  Pick  up  your 
courage,  little  girl,  and  make  a  good  life  of  it."  Then 
his  eyes  closed  again  and  he  was  off  in  some  dim,  fever- 
world  where  she  could  not  follow  him. 

"A  good  life!"  she  thought  bitterly,  as  she  sat  look- 
ing down  at  him.  Life  was  nothing  but  a  brutal  thing. 
But  oh,  if  she  could  still  conquer,  if  he  could-be  made 
to  stay  with  her,  what  a  good  life  she  would  make  for 
him  and  for  herself.  Why,  she  had  only  just  waked  up 
to  realize  how  good  he  had  been,  how  unselfish,  how 
inimitably  patient  with  her  self -absorption ;  she  was  only 
now  going  to  try  to  show  him  that  she  knew  and  ap- 
preciated; only  now  going  to  try  to  make  him  happy. 
No,  she  would  not  give  up.     She  would  still  fight. 

But  Death  takes  small  account  of  determination. 


LXIV 

Isabel  told  herself  that  she  could  not  bear  it.  Not  even 
her  husband's  death,  incomparable  as  that  loss  had  been, 
had  roused  her  to  such  a  passion  of  rebellion.  The 
greater  loss  she  had  been  slowly  learning  to  endure,  but 
had  felt  that  she  could  endure  it  only  with  the  help  of 
the  man  on  whom  she  had  been  daily  more  and  more 
depending,  and  daily  learning  to  love  with  a  more  tender 
devotion.  That  he,  too,  should  be  taken  from  her — no, 
she  could  not  bear  it!  And  all  the  time  she  knew  well 
that  bear  it  she  must.    Death  offers  no  alternative. 

To  those  around  her,  with  one  exception,  she  showed 
nothing  of  the  rage  which  possessed  her.  To  Mrs. 
Gifford  alone  she  could  partly  disclose  herself.  To 
the  others  she  seemed  entirely  firm  in  her  self-control. 
They  said  she  was  "wonder ful." 

During  those  first  days  the  house  was  full  of  people; 
those  who  came  to  mourn  for  themselves,  people  of 
every  age  and  degree,  and  those  who  came,  not  only 
for  that,  but  chiefly  to  try  to  help  her.  Mrs.  Gifford 
was  there,  day  and  night;  Edmund,  who  hated  the 
atmosphere  of  mourning,  came  to  ask  what  he  could 
do;  Cassie  came  from  New  York;  Anne,  the  niece 
whom  she  had  once  adopted  as  a  cousin,  hurried  from 
Kansas — the  funeral  was  delayed  for  her.  And  there 
was  yet  another  visitor,  unexpected  by  anyone.  William 
Stirling,  moved  by  memories  of  his  boyhood  and  perhaps 
by  other  relentings,  had,  without  stopping  to  debate  the 
impulse,  come  to  Ptolemy  and  to  Dr.  Brenton's  house. 
Isabel  met  him  quite  accidentally,  as  she  was  crossing 
the  hall  and,  not  seeing  who  he  was,  would  have  passed 
without  raising  her  eyes,  if  he  had  not  spoken. 

"Isabel  r  he  said. 

343 


344  Isabel  Stirling 

She  stopped  then  and  looked  up.  Amid  all  that  was 
so  strange  and  so  monstrous,  the  sight  of  her  father  and 
the  sound  of  his  voice  seemed  to  her  no  more  strange 
than  anything  else. 

"Yes,  Father/'  she  said,  just  as  she  used  to  say  in  the 
old  days  of  the  parsonage. 

Then  she  waited,  just  as  she  used  to  wait,  but  for  a 
moment  he  found  nothing  more  to  say.  His  ideas  were 
undergoing  an  extraordinary  readjustment. 

This  was  not  the  daughter  whose  obduracy  he  had 
all  these  years  resented — this  black-garbed  woman  with 
the  rigid,  grief-stricken  countenance.  This  was  not  a 
person  with  whom  he  could  have  any  rights  to  main- 
tain. She  was  infinitely  remote  from  him  and  entirely 
his  equal.  His  instinct  was  to  be  simply  courteous,  as 
to  a  stranger. 

Under  any  other  circumstances  Isabel  would  have 
smiled  incredulously  at  hearing  herself  addressed  in  the 
tone  which  she  had  heard  her  father  use  when  he  was 
being  polite  and  not  authoritative.  Now  she  did  not  notice 
it.  He  asked  her  what  he  could  do  for  her,  and  she  told 
him  there  was  nothing  to  be  done — that  everybody  was 
very  kind. 

'The  funeral,"  she  told  him,  in  her  self -controlled, 
colorless  monotone,  "is  to  be  from  the  church.  There 
are  so  many  who  will  come."  She  added,  in  careful 
explanation,  "the  Episcopal  church."  She  said  it  in 
meticulous  performance  of  a  duty,  and  with  absolute 
forgetfulness  of  the  way  it  would  strike  him. 

Dr.  Stirling  may  have  had  some  idea  that  he  would 
be  asked,  or  would  offer,  to  render  his  tribute  of  service 
at  that  funeral,  and  it  would  have  seemed  to  him  a  token 
of  reconciliation.  Certainly  he  had  never  thought  to 
pass  through  the  doorway  of  the  Episcopal  church  in 
Ptolemy.  Surely  he  was  not  quite  himself  that  morn- 
ing, for  he  did  not  hesitate  when  he  said:  "I  shall  be 
there." 

He  left  her  then,  since  he  saw  plainly  enough  that 


Isabel  Stirling  345 

she  did  not  want  him,  but  that  evening,  after  the  funeral 
was  over,  he  rang  her  doorbell.  He  would  not,  how- 
ever, ask  for  her  by  the  name  which  was  hateful  to  him. 

"Can  I  see  my  daughter?"  he  asked  Norah. 

Norah,  to  whom  he  was  anathema,  replied  with  dig- 
nity that  she  would  see  if  Mrs.  Maiden  would  see  him. 
"Sure  an'  he  knows  she's  his  no  longer,"  she  said  to 
herself,  as  she  went  upstairs  with  his  message. 

Isabel  came  down,  although  reluctantly.  Why  should 
he  trouble  her  now?  His  new  politeness,  his  unprece- 
dented consideration,  had  not  penetrated  her  conscious- 
ness. In  this  second  interview  she  did  become  aware 
of  it,  but  nothing  seemed  of  consequence  now.  He 
found  her  as  far  removed  from  human  intercourse  as 
she  had  been  used  to  find  him. 

It  was  a  stiff  interview.  He  ventured  on  no  con- 
ventional utterance  of  sympathy;  he  refrained  from 
religious  commonplaces.  Unconsciously  to  himself,  he 
had  dropped  those  commonplaces  when  he  ceased  to  be 
pastor  of  a  flock  for  whose  religious  welfare  he  felt 
responsible.  He  was  too  reserved,  too  shy,  to  speak 
about  his  revived  feeling  for  the  friend  of  his  boyhood 
and  he,  surely,  was  the  last  person  to  whom  she  could 
have  opened  her  heart.  He  asked  if  she  had  decided 
what  to  do  now,  and  she  answered  that  there  was  noth- 
ing to  do;  she  was  just  going  to  stay  there. 

"You  will  be  welcome  in  my  house,"  he  said.  "I  hope 
you  will  come  to  me."  He  thought  afterward  that  he 
might  have  called  it  home  to  her,  but  at  the  moment 
it  did  not  occur  to  him. 

She  did  dully  recognize  the  extraordinary  concession 
which  he  was  making  and  felt  wearily  that  she  must 
try  to  reply  adequately,  but  she  was  weighed  down  by 
such  an  overwhelming  fatigue  that  her  brain  would 
hardly  supply  her  with  words  to  answer  him. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "After  a  while — I  am  so 
tired  now — and " 

"Yes,  you  must  be  tired,"  said  her  father  (when  did 


346  Isabel  Stirling 

he  ever  think  of  such  a  thing  before?),  "but  later — I  shall 
expect  you  later." 

He  would  have  been  willing  to  say  more  if  he  had 
known  how. 

Isabel  found  unexpected  comfort  in  Anne,  the  un- 
known adopted  cousin  of  her  childhood,  divining  in 
her  some  quality  of  her  uncle.  Anne  was  sympathetic 
and  generous;  sincerely  glad  that  "Uncle  John"  had  left 
his  house  and  its  contents  to  Isabel.  "For,"  as  she 
said,  "now  we  know  that  all  trace  of  him  will  not  be 
wiped  out  from  the  place  where  he  lived  and  worked 
and  was  loved." 

Dr.  Brenton  had  tried  to  be  fair.  He  had  left  his 
little  property,  with  the  exception  of  the  house,  to  his 
nieces,  knowing  that  Isabel  had  an  income  which  would 
suffice  for  moderate  living;  and  knowing  also,  that 
Anne  and  her  sister,  both  of  them  married,  were  not 
in  need,  he  had  gratified  himself  by  giving  the  house 
with  all  that  was  in  it,  to  Isabel.  It  would,  he  had 
said  to  himself,  provide  her  with  a  foothold  to  which 
she  could  come  back,  even  if  she  chose  to  wander  away 
from  it  for  a  time.  He  knew  that  she  would  keep  it, 
for  love  of  him,  even  if  at  first  its  associations  should 
be  painful;  and  for  her  part,  she  was  glad  to  have  it, 
even  while  she  wondered  how  she  could  bear  to  stay 
there  without  him. 

In  the  course  of  her  work  as  his  secretary  she  had 
learned  something  about  the  management  of  her  own 
affairs.  He  had  seen  to  that.  Now  she  found  herself 
with  a  sufficient  income  to  keep  up  the  little  place  and 
to  live  comfortably.  There  seemed,  for  the  moment, 
nothing  for  her  to  do  but  to  stay  there.  Besides,  Dr. 
Brenton  had  said  to  her:  "Stay  here  for  the  present,  in 
your  own  place,  with  command  of  your  own  life — but  get 
someone  to  stay  with  you.  That  friend  of  yours — 
Margaret.     Get  her  to  come." 

At  first  it  seemed  that  she  did  not  care  to  have  Mar- 
garet or  anyone  else,  but  presently  when  Anne  had  gone 


Isabel  Stirling  347 

back  to  her  husband  and  children,  and  when  she  realized 
that  Cassie  was  staying  longer  than  was  convenient  to 
herself,  when  Mrs.  Gifford  was  anxiously  begging  her 
to  come  to  them  for  a  time,  and  when  finally  Lydia  wrote 
and  offered  to  come  to  stay  with  her  and  take  her  back 
after  a  while  to  the  "home"  which  was  awaiting  her, 
she  wrote  to  Margaret. 

With  Margaret's  coming  the  anxious  friends  were 
more  at  ease,  feeling  in  her  presence  an  influence  which 
was  calming  and  sustaining.  It  was  an  experiment  which 
might  have  been  a  failure,  for  the  two  had  not  met  for 
a  dozen  years,  but  the  old  tie  held  good.  As  of  old, 
Isabel  had  a  charm  for  Margaret,  quite  irrespective  of 
sympathy  and  pity;  and  as  of  old,  Isabel  looked  up  to 
her,  and  now  found  as  much  comfort  in  her  as  it  was 
possible  for  her  to  find  in  anyone. 

Margaret  said  she  was  not  in  a  hurry.  There  had  never 
been  a  time  when  her  family  could  spare  her  so  well. 
Her  parents  had  died  and  the  young  brother  and  sister 
were  grown  up  and  able  to  look  after  themselves.  She 
could  stay;  yes,  she  could  even  live  for  a  while  with 
Isabel. 

It  was  some  months  later,  when  Isabel  was  still  plunged 
in  black  depression,  still  convinced  that  life  was  but  a 
brutality,  and  unable  to  look  for  anything  beyond,  that 
Margaret  proposed  that  they  should  go  abroad. 

"Dick  and  I  always  meant  to  go  together,"  said  Isabel 
drearily. 

Margaret  said  no  more  at  the  time,  but  some  days  later 
remarked  casually  how  much  she  had  always  wanted  to 
go  and  had  always  been  prevented  by  some  duty.  After 
all,  thought  Isabel,  why  not  do  something  that  Margaret 
wanted  ? 

It  was  easy  to  make  arrangements.  Norah  and  Michael 
would  take  care  of  the  house  and  could  so  easily  get  well- 
paid  work  to  do  that  she  would  be  at  no  great  expense 
for  them.  Judge  Gifford  said  he  would  be  only  too  glad 
to  look  after  all  business  affairs;  Cassie  would  take  their 
passage  and  they  must  start  from  her  house;  everybody 


348  Isabel  Stirling 

was  glad  to  help.  Edmund  came  with  guide-books  and 
spent  several  evenings  with  them,  giving  them  all  sorts 
of  advice  and  information  for  which  they  found  reason 
to  bless  him. 

One  thing,  however,  Margaret  insisted  on.  Isabel  must 
go  and  visit  her  father  before  she  sailed.  He  had  written 
and  renewed  his  invitation,  but  she  had  no  desire  to 
accept  it. 

"I  can't  understand  it,"  said  Margaret.  "Even  if  he 
wasn't  kind  once — he  wants  to  be  kind  now,  and  he  is 
your  father." 

"No,"  said  Isabel,  "I  can't  expect  you  to  understand, 
unless  you  had  known  all  along.  There  are  things  that 
no  telling  will  ever  make  understandable — you've  got  to 
live  them.  And  I  don't  want  to  tell  you.  It  doesn't  seem 
worth  while — and  I  hate  to  be  reminded." 

"But  with  all  that,  I  think  you  ought  to  go.  Then  you 
will  have  done  your  part." 

Isabel  sighed.     "How  conscientious  you  are." 

"I  don't  know.  I  can't  help  looking  at  his  side  too. 
And  perhaps  it's  a  matter  of  self-indulgence.  I  like  to 
feel  that  I  have  done  my  part  and  don't  have  to  regret 
anything.  And  after  all,  Isabel,  there's  nothing  like  the 
tie  of  blood." 

"How  lucky  you  are,  to  be  able  to  feel  that!  If  I  do 
go,  it  will  be  to  please  you  and  have  your  good  opinion." 

She  went  and  stayed  a  week.  In  the  end,  she  was  not 
sorry  to  have  made  the  visit;  and  the  strangeness  of  it 
roused  her  interest  as  nothing  else  had  done.  She  even 
discovered  that  she  had  some  sense  of  humor  left. 

Her  father  was  extremely  polite  to  her,  treated  her  as 
an  honored  guest.  She  thought  sometimes  that  he  must 
have  forgotten  that  theirs  was  the  relation  of  father  and 
daughter.  In  that  case,  he  could  forgive  her  for  having 
been  born.  She  studied  him  with  some  keenness  and 
fancied  that  his  present  occupation,  with  its  purely  intel- 
lectual demands,  had  somewhat  blunted  the  sharpness  of 
his  religious — or  should  she  say,  his  theological,  convic- 
tions and  prejudices.    According  to  Lydia,  he  had  grown 


Isabel  Stirling  349 

into  the  habit  of  spending  his  life  between  study  and 
classroom,  avoided  social  gatherings  and  never  entered 
a  pulpit  if  he  could  help  it.  Isabel  was  far  from  sus- 
pecting that  he  had  never  gone  into  a  pulpit  with  quite 
the  same  certainty  of  his  infallibility  since  those  last 
words  which  she  had  spoken  to  him  in  the  parsonage  at 
Ptolemy.  Rage  at  her  as  he  might,  those  words  had 
struck  home. 

As  for  the  rest,  she  was  sure  it  must  be  a  great  relief 
to  him  to  be  free  from  all  gatherings  in  which  women 
largely  figured.  Heavens !  How  the  women  of  the  con- 
gregation did  use  to  flock  around  him! 

Lydia,  after  remaining  apparently  of  the  same  age 
ever  since  her  stepdaughter  could  remember,  had  now 
grown  distinctly  middle-aged.  Her  hair,  elaborately  ar- 
ranged as  ever,  showed  some  gray  among  its  sandy  coils, 
her  face  was  lined,  and  her  figure,  formerly  so  youthful 
in  its  slenderness,  had  taken  on  the  unmistakable  middle- 
aged  thickness.  Yes,  Lydia  was  growing  old,  but  she 
was  as  sententious  as  ever ;  very  polite,  impressively  and 
dreadfully  sympathetic.  Every  word,  every  tone,  was 
intended  to  remind  the  afflicted  guest  that  her  sorrows 
were  being  considered  with  a  wonderful,  an  unprece- 
dented tenderness.    Isabel  froze  under  it. 

On  her  return  Margaret  told  her  that  the  visit  had 
done  her  good. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Isabel,  "but  not  for  any  reason  you 
would  think  creditable.  Lydia  was  awful — and  so  ridicu- 
lous. I  could  see  it  even  when  she  touched  me  on  a  bare 
nerve.    And  my  father  was  so  surprising  and  perplexing." 

"And  you  found  you  had  misjudged  him  just  a  little?" 

"No,  not  that  at  all.  I  don't  believe  I  had  misjudged 
him,  except  in  thinking  that  he  was  set  so  hard  in  his 
mould  that  he  could  never  change  in  the  least.  He  has 
changed  and  it  was — interesting.  Don't  expect  any  filial 
virtues  from  me.  I  think  I'm  set  pretty  hard  in  my 
own  mould." 

She  suddenly  broke  into  a  laugh,  then  gasped  and  was 
threatened  with  hysterical  tears.     After  a  moment  she 


350  Isabel  Stirling 

controlled  herself.  "Margaret !"  she  said.  "I  haven't 
laughed  for  so  long  that  the  muscles  of  my  face  are  stiff." 

She  left  the  room  in  tears;  but  Margaret  told  herself 
that  the  visit  had  done  her  good ;  and  perhaps,  Margaret 
optimistically  thought,  she  loved  her  father  a  little  more 
than  she  knew. 

They  both  made  another  visit  before  sailing. 

"I  have  so  often  wanted  to  see  Miss  Pryor  again/'  said 
Isabel  one  day.  "She  has  written  to  me  several  times. 
Her  letters  are  different  from  anyone  else's." 

"It  would  be  perfectly  easy,"  returned  Margaret.  "We 
can  go  up  there  for  a  day  from  New  York." 

Presently  Isabel  found  it  all  arranged.  A  letter  from 
Miss  Pryor  told  her  how  welcome  they  would  be. 

Just  to  be  back  in  the  old  place  gave  her  more  pleasure 
than  she  would  have  thought  possible.  To  walk  along  the 
village  street  with  Margaret,  recognizing  old  landmarks; 
to  sit  once  more  on  the  step  under  the  Memento  Mori 
arch  and  recall  those  talks  of  her  precocious  childhood; 
to  find  out  what  had  become  of  the  various  village  nota- 
bilities— all  this  took  her  astonishingly  out  of  herself. 
With  Miss  Pryor  she  felt  humble,  reverential,  ashamed 
of  the  poor  showing  which  she  knew  that  she  must  make 
if  judged  by  the  standards  of  that  lofty  and  ardent  soul, 
but  warmed  and  comforted  by  the  affection  in  which  she 
was  enfolded ;  conscious  that,  as  always,  she  was  regarded 
with  eyes  which  saw  her  as  better,  far  better  than  she 
was.  And,  as  always,  she  felt  the  inspiration  of  that 
regard.  She  wanted,  not  to  lay  bare  her  imperfections, 
but  to  get  rid  of  them,  to  justify  the  estimate  in  which 
she  was  held.  When  Miss  Pryor  asked  her,  with  a  ten- 
derness which  robbed  the  question  of  all  intrusiveness, 
whether  she  had  at  last  found  in  religion  some  solace 
for  the  present,  some  hope  for  the  future,  she  had  to 
confess  that  she  was  without  religion,  and  then  ventured, 
hesitatingly,  to  say  something  of  those  aspirations,  so 
little  remembered  since  Dr.  Brenton's  death,  toward  a 
fitness  for  a  future  existence. 

Miss  Pryor  regarded  her  thoughtfully.    "You  are  tak- 


Isabel  Stirling  351 

ing  your  own  by-path,"  she  said,  "and  the  way  is  more 
difficult.  But  you  will  learn.  You  have  learned  very 
early  how  full  of  renunciation  life  must  be.  Be  true  to 
yourself,  as  I  am  sure  you  are — your  way  will  lead  you 
in  the  end  to  God  and  His  love." 

"Renunciation?"  said  Isabel  questioningly,  and  fell  into 
a  moment's  thought.  Then  she  raised  her  eyes  again  to 
Miss  Pryor's  face.  "I  don't  know  what  renunciation  is," 
she  said.  "Things  have  been  taken  away  from  me — 
violently — and  I  have  borne  it,  because  I  must.  I  have 
never  renounced  anything  in  my  life." 

Miss  Pryor  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  silence.  In 
her  eyes  was  infinite  pity — a  pity  born  of  the  foresight 
with  which  she  gazed  along  the  vista  of  the  path  yet  to 
be  trodden  by  that  ardent  and  self-centred  soul.  "My 
poor  child !"  she  said. 

There  was  so  much  that  she  could  have  added — words 
of  ripest  wisdom.  She  left  them  unspoken.  Here  was 
one  who  would  learn  only  of  life.  But  the  dejection 
which  the  old  feel  when  they  realize  how  useless  to  the 
beloved  young  are  the  fruits  of  their  knowledge  and 
experience  was  quickly  overborne  by  her  confident  faith 
in  one  so  dear  to  her.  Through  whatever  hardships, 
Isabel  was  sure  to  reach  the  goal  in  the  end.  One 
injunction  only  she  gave  her  as  they  parted :  "Through 
everything,  hold  fast  to  the  things  of  the  spirit." 

Isabel,  bending  her  tall  young  form  to  the  tender  em- 
brace, could  only  whisper,  "I  will." 

It  was  a  promise  which  she  never  wholly  forgot.  And, 
in  the  long  quiet  hours  when,  wrapped  in  her  rug,  she 
lay  in  a  steamer  chair  on  deck,  she  pondered  that  idea 
of  renunciation.  It  seemed  to  her,  now  that  her  attention 
had  been  drawn  to  it,  that  nearly  everyone  in  the  world 
except  herself  was  at  least  ready  to  renounce  something. 
Dick  gave  his  life  for  his  friend.  And  when  he  went 
into  the  army  did  he  not  hold  himself  ready  to  give  it  for 
his  country?  One  might  perhaps  answer  that  he  took 
the  chance  for  the  sake  of  the  profession  he  loved ;  but 
he  had  offered  to  renounce  that  profession  for  his  father's 


352  Isabel  Stirling 

sake.  And  old  Peter  Maiden — he  too  knew  renunciation 
when  he  refused  Dick's  offer.  And  Dr.  Brenton  had 
given  his  life;  and  had  always  stood  in  daily  readiness, 
as  she  realized  now.  And  there  were  others.  There  was 
Margaret.    .    .    . 

At  the  beginning  of  their  journey  Isabel  had  been 
plunged  in  deeper  melancholy  than  ever.  She  was  con- 
stantly recalling  the  plans  which  she  and  Dick  had  made 
to  go  abroad  together.  She  told  herself  and  Margaret 
that  it  seemed  unfair  that  she  should  be  doing  it  without 
him.  And  Margaret  was  so  patient  with  her ;  yet  it  was 
the  fulfilment  of  Margaret's  dream  to  go  abroad.  It 
was  horrid  of  her  to  spoil  her  friend's  pleasure. 

With  her  resolve  to  renounce  the  indulgence  of  her 
grief,  some  of  her  old  ardor  awoke  in  her. 


LXV 

Isabel  surprised  herself  and  Margaret  by  her  keenness 
as  a  sightseer.  She  was  indefatigable.  When  not  actu- 
ally standing  before  pictures  and  statuary  or  pacing  the 
aisles  of  old  churches,  she  was  studying  diligently  in 
preparation  for  the  next  day's  excursions.  Nor  did  the 
beauties  of  nature  find  her  less  responsive.  Sunset  and 
sunrise,  gentle  summer  landscape  and  snow-covered  Al- 
pine peak,  she  stood  rapt  before  them  all. 

"I  used  to  think,"  said  Margaret  one  day,  "that  you 
were  singularly  indifferent  to  nature." 

Isabel  turned  to  her  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile.  "I've 
always  been  so  occupied  with  myself  and  my  own  affairs," 
she  said.  "I  hadn't  any  attention  left  for  anything  else. 
Are  all  very  young  people  like  that,  I  wonder.  Was  I 
unusually  self-absorbed,  Margaret?" 

"I  think  perhaps  you  were,"  said  Margaret,  truthful, 
even  though  fond.    "But  you're  not  so  now,"  she  added. 

"I  haven't  any  affairs  now,"  said  Isabel  sadly.  "And 
now,"  she  added,  laughing  ruefully,  "I  go  the  other  way 
about  to  tire  you  out.  Poor  Margaret!  My  extremes 
must  be  wearing.  Why  don't  you  let  me  go  sightseeing 
alone  sometimes.    I  know  you  get  tired  sooner  than  I." 

"You  know  why,"  replied  Margaret  with  a  shrug. 
"That  man  has  hired  a  carriage  to-day.  It  stands  a 
little  way  from  ours  and  he  is  following  you  on  foot  at 
a  discreet  distance.  It  might  be  at  an  indiscreet  nearness 
if  you  were  alone." 

"Good  gracious!  I  never  knew  it.  After  all,  it  may 
be  on  your  account  and  not  on  mine." 

"Don't  be  foolish!  And  Isabel — don't  go  out  to  see 
the  sunset  with  Mr.  Hillquist  any  more." 

"Why,  he's  an  old  man,"  said  Isabel  indignantly.  "I 
might  be  his  daughter." 


354  Isabel  Stirling 

"That  doesn't  make  any  difference." 

"Oh,  how  stupid  everyone  is!"  cried  Isabel. 

In  fact,  the  task  of  chaperoning  Isabel  was  not  alto- 
gether easy.  She  considered  herself  still  Dick's  wife, 
hated  the  word  "widow"  so  sensitively  that  she  never  used 
it  about  anybody  if  she  could  avoid  it,  and  shrank  from 
its  use  with  regard  to  herself  with  an  abhorrence  of  which 
she  never  spoke  to  anyone.  Feeling  thus,  she  met  men 
on  exactly  the  same  footing  as  when  her  husband  was 
alive  and  was  entirely  unobservant  of  their  occasional 
misunderstanding  of  the  situation  until  her  eyes  were 
forcibly  opened.  When  this  happened,  she  was  inclined 
to  be  almost  as  much  insulted  as  if  she  were  still  the  wife 
of  a  living  husband.  - 

"But  you  can't  blame  them,"  Margaret  would  say. 
"You  are  so  perfectly  friendly  with  them,  and  how  can 
they  know?" 

"I  suppose  there  are  advantages  in  suttee,"  Isabel  once 
replied  to  her.  "Then  there  are  no  mistakes  made  and 
you  can  die  just  at  the  time  when  you  don't  care  about 
living.  Later,  life  gets  hold  of  you  again  somehow.  Oh, 
yes,  I  can  feel  it  getting  hold  of  me.  I'll  never  be  more 
than  half  a  person,  and  yet  that  half  does  care  about 
things — people  and  places  and  art,  and  even  the  physical 
things — heat  and  cold,  food  and  clothes.  By  the  time  I 
have  to  die  I  shan't  want  to.  And  yet; — to  grow  old 
when  the  person  you  hope  to  live  with  again  has  perhaps 
stayed  young!  Do  you  suppose  they  stay  young?  Do 
you  remember  the  story  of  the  bride  whose  husband  fell 
into  a  glacier,  and  the  glacier  moved  so  slowly  that  years 
and  years  passed  before  his  body  came  in  sight — and  she 
lived  for  that  moment,  and  came  and  saw  him,  a  fresh 
youth — kept  young  in  the  glacier — while  she  was  a  with- 
ered old  woman.  Do  you  remember?  I  sometimes 
wonder  if  that  is  partly  why  people  marry  again — so 
that  they  may  have  someone  like  themselves.  Only,  I 
don't  see  how  they  can  do  it." 

"You  don't  think  it's  wrong?" 

"Certainly  not — for  those  who  want  to." 


Isabel  Stirling  355 

After  another  misadventure  in  friendship  Margaret 
said  to  her:  "Isabel,  you  would  get  along  more  easily 
if  you  didn't  really  prefer  men  to  women." 

"Do  I?"  said  Isabel  in  surprise.  Then  she  fell  into 
thought.  "I  don't  think  I  did,  as  a  girl,"  she  said. 
"I  always  felt  then  that  I  liked  women  best  and  under- 
stood them  best.  After  that  I  didn't  think  anything 
about  it.  We  saw  a  great  many  men  and  they  were  my 
good  comrades  as  well  as  Dick's.  I  got  to  know  them 
better  and  perhaps  I  do  like  their  point  of  view  and  their 
way  of  disposing  of  the  affairs  of  life.  Yes,  perhaps  I 
do  like  them  best.     It's  unfortunate,  isn't  it?" 

"Why  not  try  a  study  of  women  for  a  while  ?  It  would 
be  so  much  less  complicated." 

"Pension  women  ?"  said  Isabel  with  a  grimace.  "I  love 
young  girls  and  get  on  with  them,  but  these  women  who 
flock  over  Europe!"  She  threw  out  her  hands  with  an 
expressive  gesture.  "Do  you  think  they  reward  study? 
Which  do  you  prefer — Mrs.  Bay  ley  with  her  fluffy  auburn 
wig,  or  Mrs.  Westerfield  with  her  smooth  dark  one?  I'm 
so  tired  of  them  all — of  the  yards  of  darned  net  and  the 
reams  of  second-hand  Baedeker,  and  the  frisky  middle- 
aged  women  and  the  doddering  old  ones." 

"Do  you  want  to  go  home?"  This  was  at  the  end  of 
the  first  year. 

"Heaven  forbid !  We  neither  of  us  want  to  go  home. 
Why,  we've  just  begun  to  see  things.  But  don't  you 
think  we  could  afford  to  take  a  little  apartment  and  keep 
house?  And  then  move  on  and  take  a  little  apartment 
somewhere  else.  We  could  have  a  lovely  time  all  by  our- 
selves— with  now  and  then  just  the  few  people  we're 
always  sure  to  meet  and  like." 

They  tried  it  and  liked  it.  They  made  a  slow  progress 
from  place  to  place,  now  spending  too  much  money  and 
then  making  up  for  it  by  an  economical  sojourn  in  some 
remote,  unfrequented,  but  not  uninteresting  corner.  This 
way  of  living  was  quite  to  their  minds,  giving  them 
privacy  and  a  certain  status,  while  in  each  place  the 
housekeeping  was  a  fresh  adventure.     They  saw  inter- 


356  Isabel  Stirling 

esting  things,  studied  interesting  languages,  and  made 
enough  acquaintances  to  keep  them  from  feeling  isolated. 
Sometimes  they  saw  friends  from  home.  Twice  Edmund 
Gifford  came  their  way  and  stopped  near  them  for  a 
time,  giving  them  always  a  fresh  start  in  their  pursuits. 

"He's  a  very  stimulating  person,"  said  Margaret. 

"And  very  determined  to  make  us  into  his  good  pupils," 
added  Isabel. 

Nevertheless,  she  enjoyed  being  his  pupil  again; 
reading  the  books  and  seeing  the  things  which  he  recom- 
mended; and  she  missed  him  when  he  went  away.  In 
some  ways  she  seemed  to  herself  to  have  become  a  differ- 
ent person  from  the  one  she  had  been  before.  Not  that 
she  had  ceased  to  think  of  Dick  daily,  but  he  formed 
the  background  rather  than  the  foreground  of  her 
thoughts.  By  sheer  force  of  having  to  do  without  him, 
she  had  got  used  to  his  absence. 

The  one  disturbing  thing  was  the  occasional  sugges- 
tion by  Margaret  of  a  return  home  and  a  separation. 

"I  wish  we  could  always  live  together,"  said  Isabel, 
"and  always  like  this." 

They  were  spending  a  domestic  morning,  resting  from 
outings  and  mending  their  clothes.  Margaret's  sleek  dark 
head  was  bent  over  the  stocking  she  was  darning.  She 
drew  the  long  thread  of  silk  carefully  through  before  she 
answered. 

"Do  you  realize  how  long  we  have  been  together?" 
she  asked  at  last.  "And,  incidentally,  how  long  I  have 
been  away  from  my  family?  Do  you  realize  it's  three 
years?  I  never  dreamed  of  staying  so  long — but  I've 
loved  it." 

"Your  family  don't  need  you." 

"I'd  be  sorry  to  think  that." 

"Are  you  needing  them?"  asked  Isabel  quickly.  "I  know 
I'm  a  selfish  pig,  but  oh,  Margaret,  I  don't  believe  any- 
body needs  you  as  I  do.  But  of  course — they  are  your 
own.     Have  you  been  hearing  anything  in  particular?" 

"Clara  has  been  getting  engaged,"  said  Margaret,  be- 
tween a  smile  and  a  tear.    "And  to  somebody  I've  never 


Isabel  Stirling  357 

seen!  She  wants  to  be  married  soon,  and  she  is  going 
to  California  to  live.  And  Fred  will  be  alone.  I  must 
go,  Isabel." 

"I  see.  Oh,  dear,  doesn't  Fred  want  to  get  married 
too?"  She  let  her  work  slip  to  the  floor  and  walked  to 
the  window.  All  flavor,  all  interest,  had  suddenly  gone 
out  of  life.    .    .    . 

But — come  now,  said  her  soul  to  her,  shall  those  fine 
ideals  which  you  cherish  go  for  nothing?  Shall  it  be  for 
nothing  that  you  have  lived  with  unselfish  Margaret  these 
three  years? — After  a  few  moments  she  turned  and  went 
back  to  her  friend. 

"Well,  it's  all  settled,"  she  said.  "This  chapter  is 
closed.  It  has  been  a  good  one.  Now — let  me  help  you 
all  I  can.  Doesn't  your  bride  want  us  to  get  her  trousseau 
for  her?    I'm  sure  she  dreams  of  Paris  finery." 

"She  does,"  said  Margaret,  "and  I'm  the  worst  shopper 
in  the  world." 

"But  I'm  not,"  said  Isabel.  "We'll  go  to  Paris  and 
then  home." 

She  gathered  up  her  work  and  went  to  her  own  room, 
and  if  she  shed  a  few  tears  there,  she  never  let  her  friend 
know.  To  Margaret's  suggestion  that  she  might  find  an- 
other friend  to  stay  with  her,  instead  of  going  back  to 
America,  she  returned  a  decided  negative. 

"Never!"  she  said.  "No,  I'll  just  go  back  to  my  own 
house.  Only  I'll  stop  and  see  Cassie  first.  I'd  like  to 
see  Cassie." 


LXVI 

After  all,  coming  home  proved  to  be,  in  its  way,  an 
adventure  like  another.  Cassie  was  her  old  satisfactory- 
self  and  it  was  delightful  to  come  back  to  her.  Lansing 
seemed  a  little  changed  in  some  way  which  Isabel  did  not 
trouble  herself  to  analyze.  He  looked  older  and,  while  he 
had  never  appeared  exactly  robust,  he  was  less  so  now. 
Cassie  was  always  looking  out  for  him,  seeing  that  his 
food  was  right  and  persuading  him  to  lie  down  before 
dinner. 

"He  works  too  hard,"  she  told  Isabel.  "I  suppose  it's 
the  price  one  pays  for  rapid  success." 

There  were  two  children  and  Cassie  was  a  devoted 
mother,  but  she  had  always  subordinated  everything  to 
her  husband's  need  of  her.  She  had  helped  him  im- 
mensely in  his  career,  not  by  wire-pulling,  but  by  sheer 
tact  and  pleasantness ;  and  he  frankly  said  that  he  could 
not  have  got  along  without  her. 

Cassie's  welcome  to  Isabel  was  heartwarming.  "It's 
such  a  joy  to  get  you  back  at  last,"  she  said. 

"I  begin  to  wonder,"  said  Isabel,  "why  I  haven't  come 
sooner — even  if  I  had  gone  back  again." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  are  ready  for  us  now,"  said  Cassie 
simply. 

"You  are  just  the  same.  You  never  fail  to  understand. 
And  I — I  seem  to  myself  in  some  ways  so  different.  And 
yet,  Cassie,  I'm  not,  really."  Her  voice  trembled  on  the 
last  words.    Cassie  had  brought  Dick  vividly  before  her. 

"You're  wonderful,"  said  Cassie. 

At  thirty-three,  Isabel  was  at  the  height  of  her  beauty. 
She  had  not,  to  any  perceptible  degree,  lost  the  freshness 
of  youth,  and  she  had  gained  a  poise  and  grace  which  in 
early  youth  had  been  lacking  to  her.  Unconsciously  she 
had  acquired  the  bearing,  the  tone  and  accent  of  a  woman 

358 


Isabel  Stirling  359 

of  the  world ;  one  might  even  say,  a  woman  of  the  great 
world,  although  she  had  had  no  social  experience  to  war- 
rant such  a  claim.  Cassie  admired  her  enthusiastically 
and,  to  his  wife's  relief,  Lansing  did  not  now  seem  bored 
by  her.  His  attitude  toward  her  had  been  somewhat 
embarrassing  on  other  occasions. 

He  had,  in  fact,  been  bored  by  Isabel  when  he  first 
renewed  his  acquaintance  with  her.  He  was  not  in  the 
least  interested  in  the  things  that  she  cared  for  and  they 
were  both  too  self -engrossed  to  make  much  pretence  of 
interest  in  each  other's  affairs.  Later,  when  she  came  to 
his  house,  absorbed  in  her  grief,  he  was  sorry  for  her,  but 
even  more  bored  by  her.  He  had  not,  therefore,  looked 
forward  to  her  visit  with  any  anticipation  of  pleasure. 
He  meant  to  be  as  patient  as  possible,  on  Cassie's  account. 
Cassie  really  deserved  that  of  him.  The  new  Isabel  was 
a  delightful  surprise.    He  mentioned  the  fact  to  his  wife. 

"I  didn't  think  she  had  it  in  her  to  be  anything  but 
provincial,"  he  said.  "It's  one  more  example  of  what 
can  be  done  by  getting  out  of  one's  rut.  Did  she  really 
go  into  society  over  there — she  and  the  old  maid  friend  ?" 

"I  feel  like  crowing  over  you,"  said  Cassie.  "I've 
always  known  Isabel's  possibilities.  No,  I  don't  think 
they  went  into  society  much— if  at  all." 

"And  to-night  we  take  her  to  the  Lorimer  ball."  He 
was  lying  on  his  sofa,  taking  his  rest  before  dinner. 
He  sighed  as  he  spoke — a  sigh  of  physical  weariness. 

"Are  you  more  tired  than  usual?  Do  you  want  to 
stay  home?"  She  kept  her  tone  casual.  He  didn't  like 
anxiety. 

"Oh,  no,  I'll  be  all  right  after  dinner."  He  got  up  and, 
going  to  a  cupboard,  poured  out  a  generous  allowance  of 
whiskey. 

Cassie  was  growing  to  hate  that  cupboard.  Nor  did 
she  approve  of  the  amount  of  strong  coffee  which  he 
usually  took  after  dinner.  But  remonstrance  irritated 
him  and  did  no  good. 

Later,  he  was  quite  at  his  best  and  ready  for  enjoyment ; 
and  he  and  Cassie  were  both  proud  of  Isabel.    Under  the 


360  Isabel  Stirling 

influence  of  European  customs,  she  had  gradually  dis- 
carded the  densely  sombre  garments  which  she  might  have 
worn  all  her  life  if  she  had  stayed  in  Ptolemy.  She  had 
not  brought  herself  to  the  wearing  of  bright  colors,  and 
her  income  did  not  permit  any  great  outlay  in  dress,  but 
her  few  and  simple  costumes  were  distinctly  smart ;  and  in 
the  black  evening  gown  which  showed  the  long  lines  of 
her  graceful  figure  and  brought  out  the  whiteness  of 
neck  and  arms  and  the  softly  brilliant  tints  of  face  and 
hair,  she  was  by  no  means  the  least  noticeable  figure  in  a 
crowd  of  well-dressed,  dazzlingly  bejeweled,  and  beautiful 
women. 

Cassie,  glancing  at  her  across  the  ballroom,  was  freshly 
impressed  by  her.  At  the  moment,  Lansing  was  with 
Isabel,  piloting  her  across  the  room.  What  a  convenience 
it  was  to  have  him  take  some  interest  in  her.  Cassie 
was  too  secure  in  her  happiness  ever  to  give  a  thought 
to  those  far-off  days  when  he  had  had  his  brief  attack  of 
infatuation  for  a  lovely  face ;  and  her  mind  had  been  full 
of  other  things.  She  gazed  at  the  two  very  happily  until 
the  crowd  came  in  between  and  hid  them  from  her  sight ; 
then  turned  with  fresh  attention  to  the  man  who  was 
talking  to  her.  Some  man  was  always  talking  to  her 
about  himself  and  she  always  listened  with  intelligent 
sympathy. 

Isabel,  her  eyes  full  of  amused  interest,  was  looking 
about  her  at  New  York's  elite.  "I  haven't  been  to  any- 
thing like  this — well,  of  course  I've  never  been  to  anything 
like  this,"  she  said.  "We  didn't  have  such  choice  as- 
semblies at  army  posts,  and  certainly  not  in  Ptolemy,  and 
Margaret  and  I  lived  like  mice  most  of  the  time  we  were 
abroad.  And  yet  I'm  oddly  reminded  of  my  very  first 
party.  I  was  only  nineteen  and  it  seemed  to  me  the 
grandest  affair  possible." 

"The  point  of  view  of  nineteen " 

"Exactly.  And  I  seem  to  have  got  it  back,  just  for 
the  moment.  It's  a  sort  of  tiptoeing  into  adventure  in 
an  unknown  world." 

Fordyce  looked  at  her  with  something  of  the  amuse- 


Isabel  Stirling  361 

ment  which  he  forgot  that  he  had  felt  when  she  was 
eighteen  and  said  naive  things  to  him.  He  reflected  that, 
even  while  she  was  declaring  herself  a  novice  in  the  world 
of  the  socially  elect  she  seemed,  in  looks  and  in  manner 
and  in  the  tones  of  her  voice,  to  be  a  citizen  of  that  very 
world.  A  citizen  ?  She  looked  a  queen,  he  said  to  himself. 

"Stay  by  me,"  said  Isabel,  "and  tell  me  who  they  are." 

As  she  spoke,  there  came  back  to  her  a  memory  of 
Edmund  Gifford  taking  her  through  the  rooms  of  his 
father's  house  and  pointing  out  to  her  the  celebrities  of 
the  new  university.  Odd,  how  it  all  came  back  and  almost 
made  her  homesick.  Lansing,  she  thought,  was  hardly 
as  amusing  as  Edmund  had  been  on  that  occasion,  and 
the  people  around  her  did  not  stimulate  her  interest  nearly 
as  much  as  had  those  professors  and  their  wives. 

But  Lansing  did  his  best  to  be  entertaining  and  felt 
that  he  was  successful.  Isabel  glanced  and  smiled  and 
responded  to  his  gossip — and  he  could  not  know  that  she 
had  suddenly  grown  from  nineteen  to  thirty-three. 

She  was  quite  thirty-three  and  at  her  best  when  she 
met  some  of  the  people,  and  was  able  to  hold  her  own 
with  them,  ignorant  though  she  was  of  their  special  lan- 
guage of  small  talk.  She  was  reminded  now  of  that 
dinner  when  she  was  an  army  bride  and  sat  beside  Colonel 
Raynor  and  felt  so  out  of  it  all.  But  even  then,  she  had 
in  the  end  held  her  own.  Now  she  cared  far  less;  and 
that  comparative  indifference,  added  to  her  lovely  face 
and  distinguished  carriage  and  the  intent  way  in  which 
she  fixed  those  beautiful,  dark-lashed  gray  eyes  on  the 
person  who  was  talking  to  her,  carried  her  through.  On 
the  whole,  her  debut  in  New  York  society  was  singularly 
successful. 

Yet  when  she  went  home  and  to  her  room  she  gazed 
into  her  mirror  with  eyes  which  saw  not  the  present,  but 
the  past.  And  oh,  how  homesick  she  was  for  that  irrecov- 
erable past !  "Oh,  Dick !"  she  sighed  softly,  as  she  turned 
away  and  put  out  the  light. 

On  those  previous  occasions  when  Isabel  had  visited 
Cassie,  she  had  had  little  to  do  with  the  children.    Grief- 


362  Isabel  Stirling 

absorbed,  she  had  been  only  dimly  aware  of  Katrina; 
and  little  Dicky's  name  and  his  blue  eyes  had  stabbed  her 
so  sharply  that  she  had  only  wanted  to  avoid  the  sight  of 
him.  Cassie,  who  had  hoped  that  he  might  be  a  comfort 
to  her,  as  he  was  to  herself,  was  grieved,  but  tolerant. 
The  time  would  come,  she  said  to  herself.  She  was 
justified  in  her  patience.  The  time  had  come.  Isabel's 
first  visit  to  the  nursery  proved  that. 

For  Katrina,  the  image  of  her  father,  tall  for  her  age, 
slender  and  dark,  somewhat  aloof  and  chary  of  her 
favors  to  a  new-comer,  she  had  enthusiastic  admiration. 
Katrina  was  an  aristocrat  and  would  be  a  beauty.  At 
the  sight  of  Dicky  she  caught  her  breath.  That  sturdy 
little  figure,  that  frank,  smiling  face  and,  oh,  those  blue, 
blue  eyes,  how  they  pulled  at  her  heart-strings!  She 
knelt  and  held  out  her  hands ;  and  Dicky,  after  one  good 
look,  came  running  into  her  arms. 

After  that,  his  constant  demand  was  for  "Aunt  Isabel." 
"Why  doesn't  Aunt  Isabel  come  ?  Why  does  Aunt  Isabel 
go  out?  Why  doesn't  she  stay  always?"  Dicky  was  a 
child  of  "why." 

Most  of  her  gowns  were  black,  but  one  evening  when 
she  went  to  the  nursery  to  say  good-night,  she  was  wear- 
ing a  white,  satiny  dress,  of  dim  sheen  and  straight  severe 
lines,  a  marvellously  perfect  setting  for  her  beauty. 
Cassie,  turning  toward  her  as  she  came  in,  thought  her 
the  most  radiantly  beautiful  creature  she  had  ever  seen 
and  then  turned  away  with  a  lump  in  her  throat  at  the 
expression  of  her  face  as  the  children  came  to  meet  her. 
Even  Katrina  was  impressed  by  the  beautiful  aunt  and 
Dicky  was  too  ecstatic  for  mere  words.  He  put  a  hand 
softly  on  each  side  of  her  face  as  she  stooped  to  him; 
then,  suddenly  turning  away,  he  ran  and  picked  up  the 
box  of  soldiers  which  was  his  dearest  treasure.  He 
brought  it  to  her,  staggering  a  little  under  its  unwieldi- 
ness,  and  laid  it  at  her  feet. 

"I'll  give  you  all  my  soldiers,"  he  said,  "if  you'll  stay 
here  in  that  dress." 

How  like  Dick  he  was — Dick,  who  had  always  loved  to 


Isabel  Stirling  363 

see  her  in  pretty  clothes,  and  hated  the  black  which  she 
wore  when  his  father  died.  She  gave  a  little  laugh 
which  was  half  a  sob.  "Keep  your  soldiers,  darling," 
she  said.  "I'll  wear  a  white  dress  for  you  every  evening 
when  I  say  good-night."  And  she  did,  even  when  it 
meant  a  quick  change  afterward. 

"If  he  were  only  mine!"  she  said  to  Cassie,  as  they 
went  downstairs  together.  "It's  wicked  to  be  as  envious 
as  I  am." 

"Stay  and  take  your  share  in  him,"  said  Cassie,  putting 
an  arm  around  her.  "It's  a  pretty  big  share,  you  know. 
The  rest  of  us  are  nowhere  since  you  came." 

"I  can't  stay  always,"  said  Isabel.  What  she  did  not 
say  was  that  she  longed  to  take  him  away  and  have  him 
all  to  herself. 

She  seldom  spoke  of  the  child  to  his  father;  not  with 
any  intentional  avoidance,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to 
talk  about  him  to  Lansing.  To-night,  however,  the  boy 
was  mentioned — perhaps  by  Cassie. 

"He's  a  jolly  little  chap,  isn't  he?"  said  Lansing,  with 
proper  parental  pride.  "They  are  very  satisfactory  chil- 
dren, I  think.  Why  do  you  look  so  startled?  Mayn't  a 
man  say  that  much  about  his  own  children  ?" 

She  laughed  with  a  little  embarrassment.  It  would 
hardly  do  to  say  that  she  had  never  thought  of  Dicky 
as  his  child.  It  had  seemed  to  her  as  if  he  only  belonged 
to  Cassie  and  herself. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  rallying  herself,  "I  look  startled 
because  you  never  said  as  much  as  that  about  them 
before." 

"Still  waters,"  said  Cassie  with  a  laugh:  "Lansing 
never  says  much." 

"But  you  can  assure  our  guest  that  nevertheless,  my 
heart  is  in  the  right  place,"  added  Lansing. 

"I  really  don't  see  how  it  could  be  anywhere  else,  con- 
sidering what  you  have,"  replied  Isabel;  and  just  then 
the  first  guest  arrived.  They  were  having  a  dinner  that 
night. 

But  still  it  seemed  to  Isabel  that  Lansing  had  no  real 


364  Isabel  Stirling 

part  in  Dicky,  and  she  never  talked  to  him  about  the 
child.  Their  intercourse  was  on  different  lines.  She  had 
become  keenly  interested  in  the  larger  affairs  of  the 
world,  and  it  was  of  those,  rather  than  of  domestic  mat- 
ters or  of  the  gossip  of  society  that  she  encouraged  him 
to  tell  her.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  impersonal 
than  their  conversation,  or  than  her  attitude  toward  him. 
He  was  Cassie's  husband,  a  goodlooking  and  agreeable 
man,  who  knew  a  great  many  interesting  things  and  im- 
parted his  information  in  an  interesting  way.  Also,  when 
one  came  to  think  about  it,  he  was  her  brother-in-law. 
The  episode  of  her  girlhood  was  so  far  buried  that  its 
only  result,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  was  an  un- 
derlying feeling  that  he  wasn't  quite  good  enough  for 
Cassie. 

With  him,  the  reverse  experience  was  taking  place. 
When,  at  the  time  of  his  marriage,  she  had  remembered 
that  episode,  he  had  practically  forgotten  it.  Now,  it 
came  back  to  his  mind  with  a  curious  persistence ;  as  also 
his  later  judgment  of  her  provincialism.  It  seemed  that 
his  first  estimate  of  her  had  been  the  correct  one.  He 
had  seen  her  possibilities  at  the  time  when  he  had  so 
nearly  lost  his  head  over  her.  And  as  for  her  beauty — 
there  had  never  been  any  doubt  about  that.  He  lost 
himself  sometimes  in  contemplation  of  it. 

"You  ought  to  have  your  portrait  painted,"  he  said  to 
her  one  day. 

Isabel  had  a  perfectly  unaffected  knowledge  of  her 
beauty  and,  secure  in  it,  never  had  to  be  self-conscious. 
"Before  Time  gets  in  his  work  ?"  she  said  laughing.  "I 
shall  have  to  bestir  myself,  for  Time  is  getting  ready 
for  me.  But  I  can't  afford  a  portrait,  you  know.  Besides, 
who  should  I  do  it  for?  There's  nobody,"  she  ended 
soberly. 

"For  the  joy  of  the  world,"  said  Lansing. 

"Hark  to  his  gallantry!"  she  mocked.  "Cassie,  is  it 
his  habit  to  say  such  things  ?" 

"For  Dicky,"  said  Cassie  softly. 

"Ah,  for  Dicky!     I  could  even  gladly  spend  a  year's 


Isabel  Stirling  365 

income  for  Dicky.  But  what  should  I  live  on  in  the 
meanwhile  ?" 

"I  know  an  artist,"  said  Lansing,  "who  would  do  it 
for  pleasure  and  fame." 

"Yes,  Eric  Dane  would  love  to  do  it,"  said  Cassie. 
"And  then  we'd  save  up  and  buy  it  for  Dicky.  And  it 
would  keep  you  with  us  longer."  For  Isabel  had  been 
talking  about  her  return  to  Ptolemy. 

They  dropped  the  subject,  but  Lansing  brought  it  up 
again.  Every  beautiful  woman  likes  the  idea  of  having 
her  beauty  perpetuated.  When  he  invited  Eric  Dane  to 
dinner,  and  the  artist  begged  Isabel  to  sit  for  him,  she  was 
pleased  to  consent.  It  would  be  something  to  her  to  cheat 
Time,  the  beautiful  woman's  arch-enemy. 


LXVII 

The  weeks  went  by  delightfully.  Isabel  found  her  taste 
of  New  York  society  one  of  the  most  stimulating  of  her 
adventures,  totally  different  as  it  was  from  anything 
which  she  had  known.  There  were  advantages,  she 
thought,  in  being  merely  a  visitor.  She  brought  to  the 
scene  a  freshness  of  vision,  a  capacity  for  being  amused 
at  things  which  everybody  else  took  for  granted ;  and  she 
was  as  little  as  possible  occupied  with  the  impression 
which  she  herself  was  making. 

"When  I  was  younger,"  she  remarked  to  Lansing,  "I 
might  have  been  alarmed  by  your  haughty  dames.  They 
are  surely  the  last  word  in  haughtiness.  I  love  to  watch 
them.    I  love  it  all." 

Watching  and  listening  with  alertness,  her  imagination 
was,  for  the  first  time  in  years,  awakened  to  vivid  activity. 
She  was  seized  with  the  long-dormant  desire  to  weave 
tales  out  of  what  she  saw  and  heard.  Unconsciously 
following  Dr.  Brenton's  advice,  she  had  no  impulse  to 
use  her  material  raw.  Of  all  the  stories  she  heard,  there 
were  none  that  she  wanted  to  write  down  verbatim.  But 
the  sight  of  a  happily  married  pair  who  seemed  improbable 
as  mates  set  her  to  building  a  whole  tale,  ending  in  that 
mating;  or  some  incident,  coming  to  her  detached  from 
all  that  had  led  up  to  it,  took  hold  of  her  and  would  not 
let  her  go  until  she  had  constructed  a  plot  and  fitted  it 
into  place.  The  prospect  of  getting  settled  in  her  house 
at  Ptolemy  gave  her  unexpected  pleasure,  for  there  she 
could  write  at  her  leisure.  Not  but  what  she  wanted  to 
come  back  again.  Never  again,  she  told  herself,  could 
she  bear  a  long  separation  from  Cassie  and  Dicky.  If 
Cassie  would  only  lend  her  the  boy  sometimes!  Mean- 
time, she  scribbled  on  scraps  of  paper  all  sorts  of  bits; 
fragments  of  conversation,  description  and  comments, 


Isabel  Stirling  367 

anything  which  seemed  at  the  moment  to  demand  pre- 
servation. 

Her  many  social  engagements  would  have  left  little 
time  for  such  exercises  of  the  intellect  had  it  not  been 
for  the  portrait.  The  sittings  gave  her  some  leisure  for 
her  mind.  Not  but  what  there  was  a  good  deal  of  con- 
versation then  too. 

Ordinarily,  Eric  Dane  knew  well  enough  how  to 
awaken  the  look  of  interest  which  he  wanted  to  use  in 
the  cause  of  art.  Indeed,  it  had  been  said  of  him  that, 
in  the  matter  of  a  woman's  portrait,  he  never  felt  that 
he  had  entirely  done  justice  to  himself  as  an  artist  unless 
he  had  succeeded  in  arousing  on  the  part  of  his  subject 
a  very  particular  interest  in  himself  as  a  man.  Tales 
were  told  of  occasional  disastrous  results  of  his  method. 
Perhaps  that  was  the  reason  why  mothers  of  tender  debu- 
tantes had  their  own,  but  not  their  daughters'  portraits 
painted  by  him.  However  that  may  have  been,  any 
effort  which  he  made  to  excite  a  special  interest  on  the 
part  of  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Maiden  was  a  signal  failure. 
He  recognized  but  one  obstacle  to  the  infallibility  of  his 
attraction.  To  some  other  man  he  attributed  the  look  of 
detachment  which  years  before  had  intrigued  Amy  Boyd 
and  Edmund  Gifford. 

Having  an  inquisitive  mind,  he  kept  his  eyes  and  ears 
open,  but  made  no  discovery  until,  one  day,  Fordyce  paid 
a  visit  to  the  studio  during  a  sitting.  Then  he  thought  he 
had  a  clue,  no  less  interesting  because  shocking.  However, 
an  artful  playing  of  that  line  brought  him  to  the  conclusion 
that,  however  she  might  have  gone  to  Fordyce' s  head, 
her  own,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  was  perfectly  steady, 
and  her  heart  quite  untouched.  "And  a  good  thing  for 
Cassie,"  he  said  to  himself.  Like  everyone  else,  he  liked 
Cassie.  No,  the  man  was  elsewhere  to  seek;  probably 
not  in  New  York  at  all. 

Since  he  could  not  awaken  that  particular  interest 
which  would  have  given  the  portrait  the  touch  he  wanted 
(and  how  he  would  have  loved  to  see  the  perfect  face 
light  up  with  that  divine  fire!),  he  must  make  shift  to 


368  Isabel  Stirling 

do  without  it.  He  hesitated  between  the  look  of  detach- 
ment which  made  her  so  elusive  and  which  had  its  charm, 
and  the  intelligent  animation  with  which  she  responded 
to  his  experiment  in  telling  her  about  himself  as  an  artist 
rather  than  as  a  man.  Meantime,  the  portrait  fell  just 
short  of  completion.  Isabel  began  to  be  impatient  and 
Lansing  grew  suspicious.  Why  had  he  let  the  fellow  have 
the  chance.  And,  strangely  enough,  the  atmosphere  at 
home  seemed  to  become  a  little  strained.  Or  was  it 
Isabel's  imagination? 

It  was  really  nothing  that  you  could  put  your  finger 
on.  Once  or  twice  Cassie,  the  most  cheerful  and  even- 
tempered  of  mortals,  had  spoken  sharply  to  a  servant — 
an  unheard-of  thing  in  that  house — and  lately,  when  she 
was  off  guard,  Isabel  had  surprised  a  worried  look  on 
her  face.  And  then,  when  Isabel  began  to  speak  about 
going  home,  and  had  prepared  herself  to  meet  affectionate 
urgency  to  stay,  there  was  an  entire  and  disconcerting 
lack  of  opposition  to  her  plan.  Well,  after  all,  Cassie 
had  probably  been  thinking  only  of  the  portrait  at  the 
time. 

"I  wish  Mr.  Dane  would  finish,"  Isabel  had  said,  "for 
I  really  do  think  I  ought  to  go  to  Ptolemy." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  portrait  ?"  asked  Cassie. 

Did  Isabel  only  imagine  there  was  sharpness  in  her 
tone?  "I  hardly  know,"  she  said.  "He  paints  out  and 
paints  in.  When  I  am  allowed  to  see  it  I  think  it  is  all 
right — and  better-looking  than  I  have  any  right  to  ask 
of  it.    But  he  tries  on  expressions  just  as  I  try  on  a  hat." 

Cassie  reflected  for  a  moment.  "Let's  take  Dicky  to 
see  it,"  she  said.  "I  know  a  portrait  painter  who  says 
he  has  great  confidence  in  a  child's  opinion." 

They  took  Dicky  to  the  next  sitting  and  the  portrait 
was  set  down  on  the  floor  against  the  wall,  so  that  he  could 
see  it  satisfactorily.  On  this  occasion  it  had  its  detached 
expression ;  the  look  of  one  who  knows  a  pleasant  secret 
and  isn't  going  to  tell  it. 

"That's  my  bufle  Aunt  Isabel,"  said  Dicky.  "But  she 
doesn't  look  at  me  like  that." 


Isabel  Stirling  369 

The  artist,  who  had  been  studying  the  child,  turned 
quickly  and  surprised  on  Isabel's  face  the  expression  with 
which  she  did  look  at  Dicky.  He  lifted  the  portrait  and 
put  it  on  the  easel.  This  was  what  he  wanted.  This, 
and  not  the  other,  was  the  divine  fire.  Beside  it,  that 
other  expression  seemed  wholly  of  the  earth.  He  was 
glad  he  had  not  found  it. 

"Stay  a  while,  Dicky,"  he  said.  "I'll  have  the  picture 
finished  pretty  soon  and  then  you  shall  see  it  again." 

He  turned  to  Cassie.  "Leave  the  little  chap  and  his 
nurse,"  he  commanded,  rather  than  requested.  "I  want 
him." 

Cassie  saw  fire  in  his  eye  and  instantly  agreed.  When 
she  was  gone  Dane  turned  to  the  nurse. 

"Keep  him  right  here,"  he  said.  He  pulled  out  some 
illustrated  magazines  and  threw  them  on  the  floor.  "Here, 
Dicky,  look  at  these."  Then  he  went  to  work  like  one 
inspired. 

It  did  not  take  so  very  long.  Dicky  exhausted  the 
pictures  and  made  a  tour  of  the  studio,  called  back  now 
and  then  by  Dane  and  bidden  to  tell  his  aunt  what  he 
had  found. 

At  last  the  artist  threw  down  his  brushes.  "I  can't 
do  any  better,"  he  said,  with  a  long  sigh. 

Carefully  he  lifted  the  painting  down  to  the  floor 
again  and  stood  on  guard  over  it,  lest  an  eager  child 
make  a  rush.  "Here,  Dicky,"  he  said.  "Is  this  the  way 
she  looks  at  you  ?" 

The  child  regarded  it  solemnly  and,  for  a  moment,  in 
silence.  He  clasped  his  hands  ecstatically.  "It's  just 
my  Aunt  Isabel,"  he  said.    "I  want  it.    May  I  have  it?" 

"Some  day,  Dicky,"  said  Isabel,  smiling.  She  had  eyes 
only  for  the  child. 

"Don't  you  want  to  see  it  too?"  asked  Dane. 

He  lifted  it  and  set  it  on  the  easel  again,  and  made  her 
stand  where  she  would  get  the  best  light.  She  looked 
at  it  without  speaking.  At  last,  with  a  quivering  sigh, 
she  turned  to  him. 

"Paint  it  out !"  she  said  to  him  in  a  low  tone. 


370  Isabel  Stirling 

"Paint  it  out?"  He  took  a  step  between  her  and  the 
picture.  "It's  absolutely  yourself — and  the  best  thing 
I  ever  did." 

"I  don't  want  the  whole  world  to  see  my  naked  soul." 

"Your  soul  will  bear  looking  at.  But  don't  concern 
yourself.  The  world  is  blind  and  stupid — and  even  if  it 
were  not,  it  would  only  see  half." 

Again  she  sighed,  seeing  the  futility  of  her  appeal.  But 
she  wished  he  had  left  the  portrait  as  it  was. 

When  they  were  saying  their  good-byes,  he  said:  "I 
owe  you  and  Dicky  the  rarest  of  all  things — a  sense  of 
pure  satisfaction  with  my  own  work." 

To  himself  he  added,  after  he  had  closed  the  door 
behind  her — "And  if  she  marries  and  has  a  child  of  her 
own,  will  she  ever  look  like  that?  I  doubt  it.  In  the 
place  of  poignancy  there'd  be  complacency !" 

He  stood  long  before  the  picture,  absorbed  in  every 
technical  detail.  "By  Jove !"  he  said,  "that's  a  good  piece 
of  work!" 


LXVIII 

"Where's  everybody  ?"  called  Fordyce  from  the  foot  of 
the  stairs. 

"I'm  here,"  said  Isabel,  coming  out  of  her  room.  "But 
I  shan't  be  here  long."  She  came  down  the  stairs  as  she 
spoke.  "Cassie  went  to  pay  some  visits  which  I  didn't 
have  to  make  and  is  to  send  back  the  carriage  for  me  to 
join  her  at  the  Wentworths'  reception.  It  ought  to  be 
here  now." 

"It's  here.  Are  you  in  a  hurry  for  the  reception? 
Can't  you  take  me  in  and  stop  by  the  way  for  a  few 
minutes?  Dane  tells  me  that  he  finished  the  picture  this 
morning  and  I  came  home  early  on  purpose  to  get  you 
to  go  with  me  to  see  it."  He  did  not  add  that  he  had 
heard  Cassie  make  the  arrangement  for  the  afternoon. 

"I  can  drop  you  there,"  said  Isabel. 

"And  come  in  just  for  a  minute  with  me,"  he  persisted. 
"I  want  to  compare  the  portrait  with  the  original." 

"Not  at  all  necessary."  For  some  unexplained  reason 
she  did  not  want  to  go  to  the  studio  with  him. 

Nevertheless,  there  seemed  to  be  no  real  cause  for  re- 
fusing. She  was  glad,  however,  to  find  that  Dane  was 
not  at  home.  When  Lansing  came  back  to  the  carriage 
and  told  her,  she  wondered  why  he  didn't  get  in.  Instead, 
he  held  the  door  open  for  her. 

"We're  going  up,  just  the  same,"  he  said.  "I  have 
the  freedom  of  Dane's  studio." 

"But  I  haven't,"  said  Isabel.  She  went  with  him,  how- 
ever, for  again  there  seemed  to  be  no  good  reason  why 
she  should  refuse,  except  that  she  was  wondering  uncom- 
fortably whether  he  would  see  as  much  of  her  soul  as 
the  artist  had  done. 

The  easel,  with  the  portrait  on  it,  was  turned  away 
from  them  as  they  entered,  and  was  placed  where  it  got 

371 


372  Isabel  Stirling 

the  best  of  the  waning  afternoon  light.  Isabel  stayed 
near  the  door  while  Lansing  walked  around  until  he  faced 
the  picture.  There  he  stood,  silent  and  motionless.  She 
could  not  see  his  face,  as  the  easel  was  between  them. 
She  had  an  uneasy  sense  of  tenseness  in  the  atmosphere 
and  thought  better  of  an  impulse  to  join  him.  She  re- 
mained where  she  was  and  suddenly  began  to  consider 
whether  she  might  slip  out  of  the  room  and  leave  him 
there.  What  a  pity  that  one  cannot  always  recognize 
one's  heaven-sent  impulses!  She  thought  it  would  be  a 
childish  trick.     Instead,  she  spoke: 

"I  really  ought  to  go  on,  if  you've  looked  long  enough." 

He  moved  then  and  came  toward  her.  His  back  was 
to  the  light  and  she  could  not  see  the  expression  of  his 
face.    It  was  the  huskiness  of  his  voice  that  startled  her. 

"You  can't  go,"  he  said,  and  put  out  his  hand  as  if  to 
detain  her. 

In  a  lightning  flash  her  eyes  were  opened.  The  shock 
was  dizzying.  For  an  instant  she  stood  quite  still.  Then, 
with  a  woman's  instinct  to  bridge  an  abyss  with  a  laugh, 
she  said  lightly: 

"Oh,  but  I  must.  Cassie  will  be  expecting  me."  She 
turned  quickly  to  the  door. 

"No  matter,"  he  said,  still  in  that  husky,  strained  voice. 
"Nothing  matters  outside  of  this  room.  Good  God, 
Isabel,  can't  you  see ?" 

"I  see  it's  getting  late,"  she  said,  still  lightly.  Oh,  if 
she  could  only  get  out  of  the  room  before  he  said  any- 
thing more.  Unspoken  things  could  be  ignored.  She  had 
her  hand  on  the  knob. 

He  put  his  over  it.  "You  shall  not  go  like  that!"  he 
said  passionately.  "Look  at  me!  Just  once  with  that 
look  in  your  eyes.  .  .  .  How  did  he  get  it?  Were 
you  looking  at  Dane  like  that?  He  does  that  to  women 
— but  not  you — good  God,  not  you!" 

"Take  your  hand  away!"  She  spoke  in  a  smothered 
voice,  suppressing  the  shiver  that  ran  through  her.  She 
stood  rigid  until  his  hand  dropped  to  his  side.  "How  can 
you  insult  me  so!"  she  said  then.     "I  was  looking  at 


Isabel  Stirling  373 

Dicky.  I  never  knew  how  I  looked — I  didn't  want  Mr. 
Dane  to  leave  it  so — and  I  owe  you  no  explanation." 

"Isabel !  You  should  have  been  mine !  I  knew  it  once 
and  like  a  fool  I  let  you  go.     You  loved  me  once!" 

"Never!"  She  flamed  with  anger  now.  "You  tried 
hard  enough  to  make  me.  You  turned  the  head  of  a 
child,  but  it  wasn't  love.  I  never  loved  anyone  but  Dick. 
And  you — have  you  no  decency  ?  Do  you  forget  Cassie  ? 
She's  far,  far  too  good  for  you!" 

"You  make  me  forget  everything,"  he  said  doggedly. 
"I  choose  to  forget  everything  for  you." 

She  drew  herself  up.  "Once  you  might  have  chosen 
that.  You  controlled  yourself  quite  easily  then.  You 
wait  till  now — now  when  you  can  do  the  most  harm — 
now  when  you  can  hurt  Cassie  and  me  so  dreadfully " 

"Is  it  nothing  at  all  to  you,"  he  said,  "that  I'm  suffer- 
ing the  tortures  of  the  damned?" 

"That,"  said  Isabel,  "does  not  concern  me." 

She  opened  the  door  and  went  out.   .   .   . 

That  evening  she  said  to  Cassie:  "Now  that  the  por- 
trait is  finished  I  really  ought  to  be  going  home.  Norah 
has  written  about  things — and  I  think  I'd  better  be  oft 
to-morrow." 

At  last!  thought  Cassie. 

Isabel  had  tried  for  her  usual  manner,  but  Cassie's 
sharp  wits  were  not  deceived.  She  knew  that  something 
had  happened.  She  was  fair-minded  enough  to  acquit 
Isabel  of  everything  but  stupidity;  an  unpardonable  sin. 
She  ought  never  to  have  let  anything  happen. 

Isabel  felt  humiliated,  heart-broken,  almost  guilty.  The 
forms  of  friendship  were  kept  up  between  them,  but  both 
knew  that  the  parting  was  for  an  indefinite  time.  And 
Dicky!    There  was  a  grief  indeed! 


LXIX 

It  was  with  a  sore  and  bitter  heart  that  Isabel  travelled 
homeward.  It  seemed  to  her  that  never  before,  even  in 
the  keenness  of  fresh  bereavement,  had  she  felt  so  alone 
in  the  world,  so  bereft  of  all  natural  ties;  for  always 
hitherto,  she  had  had  a  comforting  sense  of  Cassie  in 
the  background,  with  her  sisterly  interest  and  love.  And 
now,  through  her,  Cassie  had  received  that  cruellest  hurt. 
Oh,  why  couldn't  she  have  had  a  seeing  eye  and  taken 
herself  away  before  things  came  to  such  a  pass?  Was 
ever  anyone  so  stupid  ?  Which,  if  she  had  known  it, 
was  just  what  Cassie  was  at  that  moment  asking. 

Michael  met  her  at  the  station,  with  his  warm  Irish 
greeting  and  his  voluble  explanation  that,  but  for  the 
shortness  of  the  notice,  Mrs.  Gifford  would  have  been 
there. 

"  Tis  herself  that's  sorry,"  said  Michael,  "but  she's 
having  a  dinner  party,  and  she'll  be  over  in  the  morning." 

It  didn't  matter,  Isabel  said ;  and  told  him  she  was  glad 
to  see  him  and  Norah;  but  her  spirits  sank  still  lower. 
Yet  when  she  reached  the  house,  all  alight  to  welcome  her, 
and  was  met  at  the  door  by  Norah,  overflowing  with 
affection,  her  heart  was  a  little  lightened.  After  all,  it 
was  good  to  have  a  home  to  come  to.  There  was  a  fire 
in  the  parlor  and  in  front  of  it  a  small  round  table  was 
laid  for  her  supper.     It  looked  very  cosy. 

"I  thought  ye'd  like  it  here  to-night,"  said  Norah. 
"And  now  let  me  take  off  yer  things  and  you  sit  down 
by  the  fire  till  I  bring  yer  supper.  I've  waffles  for  ye, 
and  cinnamon  and  sugar  for  them." 

Waffles  with  cinnamon  and  sugar !  Isabel  hadn't  seen 
or  heard  of  such  a  thing  since  she  left  Ptolemy.  She  ate 
and  drank  and  wondered  somewhat  scornfully  why  her 
spirits  should  rise  with  the  comforting  of  her  body.    But 

374 


Isabel  Stirling  375 

after  supper  was  over  and  she  sat  by  the  fire  her  thoughts 
went  to  the  empty  rooms  across  the  hall.  It  seemed  as  if 
Uncle  Brenton  must  be  there,  just  on  the  other  side  of 
the  door.  Norah  came  back  and  forth,  clearing  the  table, 
mending  the  fire,  and  hovering  over  her. 

"Are  the  other  rooms  lighted  ?"  she  asked 

"Sure,  it's  all  lighted/'  said  Norah.  "I  wouldn't  lave 
a  dark  corner."  And  then,  as  Isabel  rose  from  her  chair 
— "But  ye'll  not  be  going  over  there  to-night?" 

Isabel  looked  down  into  the  kindly,  anxious  face.  She 
patted  Norah' s  stout  shoulder  and  took  an  affectionate 
survey  of  her,  as  she  stood  there  in  her  black  gown,  with 
a  white  apron  around  her  comfortable,  middle-aged  waist. 
"Oh,  Norah,"  she  said,  "you  do  look  so  good  to  me. 
And  I  do  believe  you've  got  on  your  very  best  dress  and 
have  cooked  supper  in  it." 

"Sure  I  have,"  said  Norah,  smoothing  herself  down. 
"  'Tis  the  black  silk  ye  sent  me  when  ye  were  on  yer 
wedding  journey.  It's  always  been  me  best.  And  now 
will  ye  be  goin'  up  to  yer  own  room?" 

"No,  Norah,  I  must  go  into  those  rooms  to-night.  I — 
I  can't  go  to  bed  and  feel  them  there — waiting  for  me." 

"Sure  an'  I  know,"  said  Norah.  She  went  at  once  back 
to  her  kitchen,  and  wiped  her  eyes  when  she  was  out 
of  sight. 

When  Isabel  opened  the  door  of  the  doctor's  office  it 
seemed  as  if  she  must  see  him  sitting  there ;  but  no,  he 
would  be  beyond  in  the  little  study,  leaning  back  in  the 
big  leather  chair,  smoking  his  pipe,  or  writing  at  his 
desk.  She  went  in  and  sat  down  there  herself  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands.  She  believed  then,  and  she 
never  ceased  to  believe  that  he  really  was  there,  to  wel- 
come her  back  to  his  old  home,  to  comfort  her  and  tell 
her  to  take  courage.    .    .    . 

The  winter  sun  shone  brightly  into  her  room  when 
she  opened  her  eyes  the  next  morning.  Norah  was  softly 
making  a  fire  in  the  fireplace.  Life  was  not  all  bad; 
and  coming  back  to  Ptolemy  to  live  in  her  own  house 
was  also  an  adventure.    She  rose  to  begin  life  over  again. 


LXX 

Isabel's  house  was  in  the  village,  where  the  houses  were 
close  together.  However,  the  street  was  wide  and  well 
shaded,  and  her  little  garden  had  not,  like  many  of  its 
neighbors,  been  stripped  of  its  protecting  fence.  She 
cherished  such  measure  of  privacy  as  that  gave  her. 

In  the  first  hard  days,  when  the  memory  of  that  last 
experience  in  New  York  was  still  fresh  in  its  bitterness, 
she  found  some  solace  in  putting  her  belongings  in  order ; 
in  trying  to  make  the  place  livable  without  depriving  it 
of  its  personality.  The  study,  a  place  of  dear  memories, 
should  be  her  own  writing  room — if  indeed,  she  could 
ever  carry  out  those  plans  which  she  had  made  with  so 
much  zest.  The  flavor  had  gone  out  of  everything  and 
her  imagination  seemed  paralyzed.  She  pulled  herself 
together  on  the  resolve  that,  in  spite  of  everything,  she 
would  be  master  of  herself.  Her  mind  should,  it  must, 
obey  her. 

Of  visitors  she  had  no  lack.  The  people  of  the  town 
came  to  see  her,  foremost  among  them  her  father's  old 
parishioners.  Amy  Boyd  came,  less  careworn  now,  since 
there  were  no  new  babies  and  the  professors'  salaries 
were  a  trifle  more  adequate  now  that  the  affairs  of  the 
university  were  prospering.  With  the  Giffords  there  was 
a  happy  reunion.  When  Mrs.  Gifford  put  her  arms  around 
her,  Isabel  realized  with  self-reproach  that  in  counting 
herself  alone  in  the  world  she  had  underestimated  that 
kind  old  friend's  affection.  Judge  Gifford  made  much  of 
her,  as  he  had  always  done  in  his  humorous  way.  Ed- 
mund, for  the  moment,  was  away,  delivering  a  course  of 
lectures  for  which  he  had  obtained  leave  of  absence.  He 
was  highly  thought  of  in  the  university  and,  it  was  said, 
could  have  whatever  he  asked  for,  in  spite  of  certain 
trustees  who  were  somewhat  inclined  to  mark  time,  after 

376 


Isabel  Stirling  377 

the  fashion  of  a  factory.  Jessie  was  happy  and  well  in 
her  western  home  and  would  be  coming  east  to  spend  the 
summer. 

Lily  Hazelton,  of  course,  was  among  the  first  visitors 
— just  the  same  Lily,  touching  her  with  caressing  fingers 
and  saying,  "Sweet  thing,"  exactly  as  she  had  done  years 
ago  when  they  met  at  their  first  army  station.  Isabel 
drew  away  a  little  at  the  remembrance. 

"Beautiful  as  ever,"  said  Lily,  "and  of  course  your 
colored  clothes  are  so  becoming."  Isabel  was  wearing  a 
violet  morning  gown. 

"Now  I,"  pursued  Lily,  "have  never  been  able  to  bring 
myself  to  make  any  change  in  my  dress."  She  sighed  and 
smoothed  back  a  cuff. 

Isabel  regarded  her  with  curiosity.  Lily  was  wearing 
the  deepest,  most  immaculate  black.  The  white  ruche  in 
her  hat  and  her  crisp  lawn  collar  and  cuffs  still  proclaimed 
her  widowhood.  In  this  setting  her  delicately  tinted,  fair 
face  gained  a  softness  and  a  distinction  which  it  never  had 
possessed  in  the  days  of  her  most  artful  management  of 
colors. 

She  gazed  around  her  with  all  the  old-time  envy.  "How 
nice  it  is,"  she  said,  "for  you  to  have  a  house  of  your  own 
to  come  back  to.    Now  I — "    She  paused  and  sighed. 

"You  have  a  father  and  mother  to  live  with,"  said 
Isabel,  banally  enough. 

"Oh,  yes,  and  they  are  very,  very  dear  and  sweet  (Isa- 
bel couldn't  imagine  anybody,  even  a  daughter,  calling 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brainard  "sweet"),  but  when  one  has  lived 
independently  one  feels  it  to  come  back  to  even  a  partial 
dependence.    "I  suppose  you  know  we  have  moved  ?" 

"No." 

"Yes,  we  really  didn't  care  for  the  neighborhood  any 
longer.  There  was  a  chance  to  sell  the  house,  so  now 
we  have  one — very  tiny,  to  be  sure,  up  on  the  hill,  not  far 
from  the  campus." 

"It  must  be  a  change  for  your  father  and  mother. 
Hadn't  they  always  lived  in  the  same  house  ?" 

"Yes,  ever  since  they  were  married — but  my  dear — the 


378  Isabel  Stirling 

neighborhood  was  really  impossible."  Lily  waved  the 
neighborhood  away  with  a  gesture  of  her  slim,  black- 
gloved  hand. 

Isabel  thought  of  the  plain,  elderly  couple  who  had 
lived  all  their  married  life  among  the  same  friendly 
neighbors,  and  felt  sorry  for  them. 

A  few  days  later  Mrs.  Gifford  expressed  herself  with 
unaccustomed  energy  on  the  subject  of  Lily. 

"I  dare  say  you'll  think  I'm  getting  to  be  an  unchari- 
table old  woman,"  she  said,  "but  I  simply  can't  stand  her 
pretenses.  All  the  poppycock  about  her  not  being  able  to 
'make  any  change*  in  her  dress,  for  instance.  The  Brain- 
ards  have  very  little  money,  poor  things,  and  she  is  clever 
enough  to  know  that  she  couldn't  possibly  make  such  a 
good  appearance  if  she  didn't  hold  fast  to  that  costume." 

"I  think  it  makes  a  difference  what  people  about  you 
are  doing,"  said  Isabel.  "You  fall  insensibly  into  the 
custom  of  the  country.  I  realize  that  many  people  here 
wear  black  all  their  lives.  It  makes  me  feel  very  odd." 
She  ended  with  a  wistful  sigh. 

"Oh,  my  dear !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gifford.  "You  have 
done  exactly  right.  When  I  compare  you  and  Lily — 
well,  it's  a  case  of  'rend  your  hearts  and  not  your  gar- 
ments.' " 

Isabel  laughed.  The  figure  did  not  seem  to  fit  Lily. 
Even  in  metaphor  one  could  not  picture  her  rending  a 
garment. 

"And  then,"  pursued  Mrs.  Gifford,  "the  way  she  has 
dragged  those  two  poor  old  things  up  to  the  top  of  the 
hill,  so  that  she  can  get  at  the  bachelor  professors.  You 
know  Town  and  Gown  have  grown  apart  of  late  years — 
and  the  hill  is  a  large  natural  barrier.  I'll  say  for  her 
that  she  lets  the  married  men  alone — but  no  great  credit 
to  her.  She  wants  to  marry  again.  I  assure  you  she'll 
shed  the  weeds  fast  enough  if  she  can  get  a  chance  that 
seems  worth  her  while." 

Isabel  smiled  and  wondered.  This  diatribe  seemed 
quite  uncharacteristic  of  Mrs.  Gifford,  who  was  usually 
easy-going  and   disinclined  to    say   hard   things  about 


Isabel  Stirling  379 

people.  "Will  she  get  the  chance,  do  you  think?"  she 
asked. 

"I  hope  not."  Mrs.  Gifford  set  her  lips  hard.  "You 
see,  she  doesn't  want  to  marry  a  poor  man  this  time  and 
the  professors,  as  a  rule,  are  not  too  well  off,  although 
the  unmarried  ones,  as  long  as  they  stay  unmarried,  have 
money  enough  to  live  pleasantly.  I  suppose  the  only 
fairly  good  match  is  Edmund." 

"And  you  certainly  don't  have  to  worry  about  him.  I 
quite  remember  that  he  didn't  like  Lily." 

Mrs.  Gifford  shook  her  head.  "One  can't  be  too  sure. 
Men  change  in  the  course  of  time — and  also,  there  are 
critical  moments.  She's  making  a  dead  set  at  him — and  I 
imagine  she  knows  how  to  cater  to  a  man.  She  sits  up 
there  in  that  little  house  with  her  tea-table  and  her  chafing 
dish — and  keeps  the  old  people  out  of  the  way.  I  assure 
you,  she's  popular  among  the  men.  They  go  there  and 
meet  each  other  and  talk — and  probably  credit  her  with 
some  of  their  own  good  talk.  And  she  pampers  them 
and  looks  pretty  and  appealing.  And  Edmund — well, 
the  instinct  of  marriage — the  desire  for  a  wife  and  family 
of  his  own  gets  hold  of  a  man.  And  then  if  a  woman 
strikes  while  the  iron  is  hot  she's  apt  to  get  him,  if  she 
has  any  tact  at  all.  Edmund  ought  to  have  married  long 
ago.  I  love  to  have  him  at  home,  but  I  hate  to  see  him 
miss  anything  he  ought  to  have  in  life.  And  now — Lily 
is  after  him  and  I  live  in  mortal  terror  lest  she  get  him. 
If  she  could  make  him  happy — but  I'm  sure  he'd  hate 
her  after  a  while." 

"From  what  I  know  of  him,"  said  Isabel,  "I  think  he 
might.  Only,  I  can't  for  a  moment  imagine  him  marry- 
ing her." 

"You  think  my  imagination  is  running  away  with  me. 
Well,  my  dear,  I  only  hope  it  may  be." 

To  tell  the  truth,  that  was  just  what  Isabel  did  think. 
She  thought  so  all  the  more  when,  on  his  return,  Edmund 
came  to  see  her.  There  was  such  a  sane,  wholesome 
friendliness  about  him.  Always,  she  reflected,  he  dropped 
back  into  the  same  comfortable  comradeship,  no  matter 


380  Isabel  Stirling 

how  long  it  might  have  been  since  they  had  met.  To  be 
sure,  there  had  been  that  one  startling  episode  when  he 
asked  her  to  marry  him;  an  episode  which  seemed  more 
and  more  unreal  to  her.  Probably  it  had  happened  at 
one  of  those  crises  of  which  Mrs.  GifTord  had  spoken, 
when  the  instinct  to  marry  seizes  a  man.  At  all  events 
it  was  buried  in  the  past.  She  hoped  she  was  going  to  see 
a  good  deal  of  Edmund.  More  than  anyone  else  in 
Ptolemy,  he  spoke  her  language. 

But,  as  the  weeks  passed,  she  saw  him  less  often  than 
she  had  anticipated.  Of  course  he  was  busy  catching  up 
with  his  work,  after  his  absence.  When  she  dined  at  his 
mother's,  either  alone,  or  with  a  party  of  the  people  whom 
Mrs.  Gifford  wanted  her  to  meet,  he  was  as  nice  to  her 
as  ever,  but  she  had  disappointingly  little  of  the  intimate, 
intellectually  stimulating  intercourse  with  him  to  which 
she  had  looked  forward. 

Presently,  however,  in  the  other  interests  which  began 
to  fill  her  time  and  thoughts,  she  forgot  to  miss  him.  She 
made  new  acquaintances.  The  people  whom  she  met  at 
the  GifTords'  came  to  see  her  and  invited  her  to  their 
houses,  where  she  met  more  people.  Quite  simply,  she 
slipped  into  the  innermost  exclusive  circle  of  the  campus, 
the  circle  where  there  were  many  charming  little  enter- 
tainments. In  her  modest  way,  she  was  able  in  her  turn 
to  entertain  these  new  friends.  Edmund  came  when  he 
was  asked  and  made  himself  most  agreeable. 

She  still  meant  to  begin  her  novel  at  once.  Writing 
table,  paper,  pens  and  ink,  all  were  ready  for  her  in  the 
study,  and  even  a  typewriter  stood  on  its  table  by  the 
window.  Yet  from  day  to  day  she  put  off  beginning,  and 
was  thoroughly  dissatisfied  with  herself  for  the  procras- 
tination. It  seemed  that  her  mind  still  shrank  away  from 
all  the  plans  and  ideas  which  owed  their  beginning  to 
that  ill-fated  visit. 


LXXI 

Of  course  if  Isabel  had  known  of  Lily's  Sunday  after- 
noons she  would  not  have  chosen  that  day  to  go  to  see 
her.  But  it  happened  that,  on  this  particular  Sunday 
solitude  became  unbearable  to  her;  nor  did  she  want  to 
see  anyone  to  whom  she  would  be  tempted  to  unburden 
her  soul — as  she  might  have  done  to  Mrs.  Gifford.  The 
longing  for  Dicky,  which  she  had  kept  out  of  sight,  in  the 
back  recesses  of  her  mind,  had  burst  all  bounds  and  taken 
possession  of  her.  She  wanted  him  so  dreadfully,  wanted 
to  feel  him  in  her  arms  and  to  look  into  those  blue  eyes. 
A  bitter  rage  at  Lansing  Fordyce  surged  up  in  her,  and 
shame  and  sorrow  at  the  thought  of  Cassie.  Every  bit 
of  her  soul  felt  sore. 

She  tried  to  read,  but  the  words  got  no  farther  than 
her  eyes  and  she  threw  the  book  down.  She  began  a 
letter  to  Cassie.  Surely  they  must  not  quite  give  up 
writing.  She  found  herself  weeping  and  a  tear  fell  on 
the  paper.  She  dropped  the  letter  into  the  fireplace  and 
touched  a  match  to  it.  She  went  to  the  typewriter  and 
gave  herself  a  lesson  in  its  use.  That  was  calming,  but 
not  enlivening,  and  she  soon  got  tired  of  it.  Although  she 
had  been  walking  all  the  morning,  she  decided  to  go  out 
again,  and  went  to  put  on  her  hat  and  coat. 

The  gusty  March  wind  blew  violently  in  her  face  as 
she  opened  her  door  and  stepped  out.  The  winter  snow, 
lingering  late  in  that  northern  climate,  still  lay  in  patches 
in  sheltered  spots,  and  on  the  gray,  uncovered  ground 
there  was,  as  yet,  no  tinge  of  green.  "Horrid  climate I" 
she  said,  as  she  fought  her  way  against  the  wind,  but  it 
brought  color  to  her  cheeks  and  light  to  her  eyes. 

She  walked  far  up  on  the  hill  and  the  day  was  waning 
when,  on  her  return,  she  passed  the  Brainards*  little  house. 
It  occurred  to  her  that  it  would  be  a  convenient  time  to 

S81 


382  Isabel  Stirling 

go  in  and  return  one  of  Lily's  numerous  visits.  She  was 
hating  to  go  home  to  shadows  and  memories. 

She  would  not  have  been  admitted  if  it  had  occurred  to 
Lily  to  deny  herself  to  unexpected  visitors,  but  as  no 
woman  had  yet  been  known  to  come  on  a  Sunday,  the 
maid  let  Isabel  in.  When  she  heard  the  voices  she  thought 
it  was  too  late  to  withdraw.  Yet  she  stood  for  a  moment 
on  the  threshold  of  the  parlor  before  anyone  saw  her. 

The  corners  of  the  room  were  dusky,  but  the  tea-table 
was  in  a  lighted  space.  Lily's  face  shone  out  white  above 
her  black  gown.  She  was  smiling  up  at  Edmund  Gifford, 
who  stood  near  her,  tea-cup  in  hand.  There  was  an  open 
fire  and  in  front  of  it  two  men  were  talking  and  smoking. 
Another  was  sitting  near  the  tea-table,  evidently  having  a 
bantering  argument  with  Edmund.  It  all  looked  intimate 
and  attractive.  Isabel  felt  more  and  more  annoyed  at 
herself  for  being  there. 

It  really  was  but  an  instant  before  Lily  saw  her  and 
sprang  up.  Her  cordial  manner  was  extremely  well  put 
on  and  Isabel  was  grateful  to  her  for  it. 

"But  this  is  delightful !"  exclaimed  Lily.  "I  had  been 
wondering  so  much  what  had  become  of  you,  and  now 
you  just  complete  our  little  circle.  You  know  everybody 
here?  Mr.  Lang,  Mr.  McAlpine,  Mr.  Harding — I  sup- 
pose I  ought  to  say  Professor  to  all  of  them,  but  you 
know  nobody  is  professorish  here.  Come  and  sit  down 
right  here  by  the  fire — you  don't  mind  smoke.  Doesn't 
it  remind  you  of  our  dear  old  army  days?" 

The  man  by  the  fire  offered  her  a  chair  with  alacrity, 
but  it  was  Edmund  who  brought  her  a  cup  of  tea,  after 
which  he  drew  up  a  chair  for  himself  and  sat  down  by  her. 
He  had  been  quick  to  see  the  little  embarrassment  which 
no  one  else  had  detected.  One  of  the  two  men,  after 
standing  about  for  a  moment,  strolled  to  the  tea-table, 
and  presently  the  other  followed  him.  Not  but  what 
either  of  them  would  willingly  have  stayed  to  talk  with 
Mrs.  Maiden  if  Gifford  had  given  them  a  chance.  Coming 
in  tingling  and  glowing  after  her  battle  with  the  wind, 
she  had  brought  into  the  warm,  dim  room  a  suggestion  of 


Isabel  Stirling  383 

open-air  freedom  and  buoyancy.  Beside  her  Lily  seemed 
bleached. 

"I  really  had  no  idea,"  she  said  to  Edmund,  with  a  half 
deprecating  laugh. 

"You  had  no  idea  how  sophisticated  we  had  become  in 
Ptolemy.  The  Sunday  salon  was  unknown  when  you 
lived  here." 

"Ptolemy  is  much  nicer  now.  At  least,  the  campus. 
The  people  there  don't  seem  so  careworn  as  they  used  to." 

"You  frequent  the  upper  stratum  where  they  have  good 
salaries  and  time  to  amuse  themselves." 

"And  work  enough  too—which  they  do." 

"They're  obliged  to  do  it.  You  sound  envious  of  the 
work.    Does  time  hang  on  your  hands?" 

"On,  I'm  constitutionally  busy — and  so  I  don't  do  the 
right  things.  Don't  you  know  what  makes  time  shortest 
of  all?  It's  keeping  on  not  doing  the  thing  that  you 
intended  to  do — that  you  most  want  to  do.  It's  always 
to-morrow — and  to-morrow  is  over  before  you  know  it 
has  begun." 

"I  know.  It  eats  up  your  life  and  leaves  you  dissatis- 
fied.   But  why  not  make  a  plunge  and  begin  ?" 

"I'm  putting  it  off  till  this  evening.  And  this  evening 
I'll  put  it  off  till  to-morrow." 

"So  you're  planning  another  novel." 

She  laughed.  "Of  course  it's  easy  for  you  to  guess. 
And  I  never  meant  to  let  a  soul  know  of  my  presumptuous 
ambitions.    But  you  are  very  safe." 

"Don't  write  anything  that  you  must  keep  secret." 

"I  never  shall.  Only  while  I'm  trying  to  do  it.  One 
really  must  keep  one's  own  counsel  then — little  as  I  seem 
to  be  doing  it.  Perhaps  you  think  because  I've  told  you 
so  easily " 

"I  believe  I  think  it's  natural  for  you  to  let  me  into 
the  secret.  You  know  I  was  the  only  person — at  least,  I 
think  I  was  the  only  person  who  found  you  out  before. 
That  was  an  extraordinary  thing — a  girl  of  your  age 
doing  such  a  thing  and  keeping  it  absolutely  to  herself." 

"I  had  an  idea  of  telling  you,"  she  said,  playing  with 


384  Isabel  Stirling  > 

her  teaspoon.  "You  wouldn't  have  let  me  publish  it,  and 
of  course  I  ought  not  to  have  published  it." 

"But  why?"  he  began,  and  stopped  with  a  sudden 
thought  of  the  possible  reason.  "How  did  you  manage 
the  details?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Brenton  knew  I  was  doing  something,  be- 
cause I  had  to  ask  him  to  let  my  mail  come  to  him.  He 
didn't  take  it  seriously — and  was  horrified  when  he  saw 
it.    And  you — you  were  really  the  cause  of  it,  you  know." 

He  smiled.  "I've  always  wondered  if  a  conversation 
at  one  of  our  lessons  started  you." 

"I  began  it  that  very  day.  And  you  helped  me  all  along 
too." 

"Of  course  I  tried  to  set  you  in  the  way  of  writing 
English,  but  that  was  very  little." 

"You  helped  me  by  telling  me  that  I  couldn't  do  any- 
thing without  applause — that  I  wouldn't  work  on  a  desert 
island.  So  whenever  I  got  tired  of  it  and  wanted  to  give 
it  up  I  said  I  would  work  on  my  desert  island.  But  after 
all,  you  were  right  about  it." 

"I  don't  quite  see  it.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  was  signally 
wrong." 

"I  can  see  that  I  always  meant  to  tell  you  some  time 
and  get  your  applause.  I  thought  I  was  so  clever.  But 
you  didn't  applaud  me  to  any  great  extent  that  one  time 
when  you  did  speak  to  me  about  it." 

"I'm  sure  I  admitted  cleverness.  It  was  clever.  But 
you'll  do  a  great  deal  better  now.  Just  for  the  moment 
you  are  feeling  as  if  you  were  on  that  desert  island,  and 
so  you  can't  begin.  Let  me  land  on  the  island  with  you. 
Talk  to  me  about  it.  But  there's  a  better  thing  than  talk- 
ing.   Begin!    There's  magic  in  beginning." 

"I'll  begin  to-day — just  as  I  did  before." 

"And,  of  course,  you'll  tell  me  how  you  are  getting  on." 

They  talked  a  little  more  before  Isabel  recalled  her 
intention  of  staying  only  for  a  moment.  She  rose  and 
set  down  her  teacup.  "I  must  speak  to  Lily  and  then  go 
home,"  she  said. 

Edmund  followed  her  to  the  tea-table. 


Isabel  Stirling  385 

"Don't  go,"  said  Lily,  rising  with  alacrity,  to  speed  the 
parting.  She  had  hardly  been  able  to  endure  the  sight  of 
the  two,  so  absorbed  in  conversation. 

"I  only  stopped  in  passing,"  said  Isabel.  "I'll  come 
another  day." 

"Let  me  walk  home  with  you,"  said  Edmund.  "It's 
quite  dark." 

Lily's  fingers  tapped  impatiently  on  the  back  of  the 
chair  near  which  she  was  standing.  This  was  too  much 
and,  in  spite  of  herself,  the  sweetness  of  her  tone  could 
not  quite  cover  a  touch  of  sharpness. 

"Do!"  she  said.  "We  can  look  over  those  pictures 
another  time."  She  glanced,  as  she  spoke,  at  the  portfolio 
which  he  had  brought,  at  her  request.  He  had  not  in- 
tended to  show  her  the  pictures,  only  to  leave  them  with 
her. 

"It  isn't  in  the  least  late,"  said  Isabel.  "It  only  looks 
dark  from  inside.  I  came  out  for  an  unfriendly  solitary 
walk  and  you  must  let  me  go  on  with  it.    Good-bye." 

She  went  quickly  to  the  door  and  turning,  smiled  at 
them  all  before  she  disappeared.  With  her  departure 
some  vitality  seemed  to  go  out  of  the  atmosphere. 

Edmund  outstayed  the  others,  as  Lily  had  intended  him 
to  do,  and  showed  her  the  photographs.  It  bored  him  to 
show  pictures  to  a  person  who  had  not  his  associations 
with  them. 


LXXII 

Isabel  felt  like  a  schoolgirl  again,  working  under  a  spur. 
She  began  her  novel  that  night  and,  under  the  impetus  of 
her  conversation  with  Edmund,  wrote  a  first  chapter 
which  pleased  her.  She  read  it  over  once  more  just  before 
she  got  into  bed  and  asked  herself  half  incredulously, 
whether  she  could  keep  up  the  pace.  "But  I  will!"  she 
said,  as  she  put  out  her  light. 

The  next  morning  things  did  not  go  so  well.  She 
wrote  and  rewrote  and  destroyed.  At  the  end  of  three 
hours  she  was  just  beginning  to  get  into  the  swing  of 
thought  and  expression  when  Norah  announced  luncheon 
and  she  had  to  stop.  After  that  it  was  not  easy  to  begin 
again.  Besides,  she  wanted  to  get  out  of  doors.  When 
evening  came  she  had  written  no  more,  but  a  visit  from 
Edmund  encouraged  her. 

"Show  me  what  you've  done,"  he  said,  and  she  obeyed. 

It  reminded  them  both  of  the  days  when  he  read  and 
corrected  her  exercises  in  English. 

"That's  good,"  he  said.    "Really  good.    And  now?" 

"Nothing  but  drivel  since  that.  It's  easy  to  make  a 
start,  and  so  hard  to  go  on." 

"You'll  come  to  smooth  sailing  again — by  dint  of 
cruelly  hard  work.  Do  you  feel  like  telling  me  something 
about  your  plot?" 

"I  feel  exactly  like  it,  but  I'm  going  to  deny  myself. 
Not  because  it  would  bore  you,  though  I  dare  say  it  might, 
but  because  I'm  afraid  it  would  be  an  enervating  luxury. 
I've  an  idea  that  what  I  have  to  say  will  gather  more  force 
if  I  keep  it  tightly  bottled  and  only  let  it  out  on  paper." 

"You're  probably  right.  Show  it  to  me  afterward. 
But  you  know  I'm  an  incorrigible  critic — and,  I'm  afraid, 
a  confirmed  schoolmaster." 


Isabel  Stirling  387 

1  like  your  criticism.  It's  fierce,  but  stimulating.  I 
haven't  forgotten.  And  I  need  something  to  drive  me. 
Oh,  you  were  quite  right  about  the  desert  island.  My 
mind  isn't  a  kingdom  to  me  unless  it  is  stimulated  by 
contact  with  other  minds.  It  gets  stodgy.  But  if  a  com- 
petent person  is  going  to  overhaul  me — that  makes  all 
the  difference.    It's  very  good  of  you." 

He  looked  at  her  across  the  library  table.  They  had 
unconsciously  taken  the  old  positions  they  had  been  used 
to  occupy  when  she  came  to  his  study  as  a  pupil.  He 
recalled  her  as  she  was  then;  the  ardor  of  her  seeking 
mind,  the  eager  intelligence  with  which  she  responded  to 
his  guidance,  the  impatience  to  begin  and  accomplish 
which  had  carried  her  through  the  extraordinary  under- 
taking of  her  book,  and  then — the  radiance  of  her  girlish 
beauty.  She  was  not  less  beautiful  now,  he  thought.  The 
years,  with  their  sorrows,  had  matured  her,  but  had  made 
no  conquest.  And  the  ardent,  seeking  mind  was  still  hers, 
and  the  determination  to  achieve.  How  interesting  it 
would  be  to  watch  and  to  help  her. 

"Suppose  you  abandon  that  stiff  chair,"  she  was  saying, 
"and  take  an  easy  one,  by  the  fire.  I  have  cigars  and 
cigarettes  which  competent  judges  tell  me  are  fit  to 
smoke." 

"You  didn't  learn  to  smoke,  yourself,  while  you  were 
abroad?"  he  asked,  as  he  took  the  seat  she  suggested. 

"Could  I  ever  have  come  back  to  Ptolemy  if  I  had? 
Besides,  even  if  I  had  wanted  to,  I  don't  think  Margaret 
could  have  borne  it." 

"How  is  she,  the  good  Margaret?" 

"Always  the  very  best  Margaret.  She's  a  person  you 
can  count  on,  whether  you  can  on  anyone  else  or  not." 

A  shadow  came  over  her  face  and  he  looked  at  her 
curiously. 

"Are  you  writing  something,  yourself  ?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  usually  writing  something,"  he  told  her,  "but 
nothing  of  very  much  account.  Students  pick  my  brains 
dry.  However,  I  shall  take  a  sabbatical  year  soon,  and 
then  perhaps " 


388  Isabel  Stirling 

That  was  the  first  of  many  evenings  which  he  spent 
with  her.  As  far  as  she  knew,  he  still  may  have  gone  to 
Lily  on  Sunday  afternoons  and  perhaps  at  other  times, 
but  it  hardly  seemed  to  her  that  his  mother's  fears  could 
have  any  real  foundation.  He  was  so  exactly  his  old  self, 
just  as  she  had  always  known  him,  except  during  that 
one  brief,  amazing  episode.  How  unreal  that  seemed  to 
her  now,  and  how  uncharacteristic!  The  real  Edmund 
was  this  friendly,  whimsical,  thoroughly  human  man  of 
intellect ;  a  man  with  a  very  particular  genius  for  friend- 
ship, both  with  men  and  women;  sympathetic,  quick- 
witted, domineering  at  times,  sure  he  was  right  and  that 
one  must  go  his  way,  yet  always,  with  a  laugh  and  a 
shrug,  recognizing  his  own  foibles.  This  was  not  a  man 
to  concentrate  his  affections  on  a  wife  and  to  sit  quietly 
by  his  own  fireside.  For  him,  an  open  house  of  his  own 
and  a  welcome  at  many  firesides.  Certainly  the  warmest 
of  welcomes  at  hers. 

Of  course  Ptolemy  would  have  talked  if  Ptolemy  had 
known,  but  Isabel  received  few  other  visits  in  the  evening, 
so  that  Edmund  was  seldom  met  at  her  house  except  when 
she  invited  him  there  with  other  guests.  Without  any 
intention  of  concealment  on  the  part  of  either  of  them, 
their  growing  intimacy  was  kept  out  of  the  public  eye. 
Yet  in  one  case  Isabel  did  purposely  avoid  mentioning  it. 
She  had  quoted  some  saying  of  his  to  his  mother,  and  had 
added,  quite  innocently: 

"You  know  Edmund  comes  to  see  me  sometimes  and 
I  always  enjoy  him." 

Mrs.  Gifford  had  looked  so  greatly  pleased  and,  withal, 
had  given  her  such  a  sharp  glance  that  she  was  vexed. 
Edmund's  mother,  she  told  herself,  was  too  ready  to 
imagine  things.  She  had  alarmed  herself  so  much  and  so 
groundlessly  that  now  she  wanted  to  turn  matchmaker 
to  keep  him  safe  from  Lily.  After  that  she  refrained  from 
mentioning  his  visits. 

Meantime,  she  was  writing  diligently  and,  from  time 
to  time,  showing  Edmund  what  she  had  written.  As  he 
had  said  of  himself,  he  was  an  unsparing  critic  and  an 


Isabel  Stirling  389 

urgent  one.  She  didn't  always  agree  with  him  and  they 
had  hot  arguments. 

"I  really  think,"  she  said  to  him  once,  "that  your 
criticism  helps  me  almost  more  when  I  think  you  are 
wrong  than  when  I  know  you  are  right.  When  I  disagree 
with  you  it  is  as  if  you  drove  my  mind  with  whip  and 
spur  and  it  goes  on  the  gallop.  In  trying  to  answer  you 
I  get  ideas  I've  never  had  before  and  never  should  have 
had,  and  it  helps  me  a  lot." 

"That's  gratifying — and  shows  you  are  worth  criti- 
cising." 

He  was  always  willing  to  see  when  she  was  right  and 
to  admit  it  handsomely.  "Far  be  it  from  me  to  meddle," 
he  said  once.  "You  are  quite  capable  of  carrying  the 
thing  through  without  any  help  of  mine." 

But  it  was  not  possible  for  him  to  keep  his  hand  out. 
In  half  an  hour  he  might  start  a  fresh  discussion  and 
would  be  as  sure  as  ever  that  he  was  right.  It  was  one 
Saturday  evening  that,  before  leaving  her,  he  issued 
orders  to  her  to  rewrite  a  certain  chapter  within  twenty- 
four  hours.  "You  must  do  this,"  he  said,  "while  the  iron 
is  hot.  Make  the  first  draft  to-night,  if  you're  not  too 
tired.  Anyway,  work  at  it  to-morrow  morning  and  in  the 
afternoon  I'll  drop  in,  if  you'll  let  me.  Perhaps  you'll 
give  me  a  cup  of  tea." 

On  that  occasion  Isabel  never  gave  a  thought  to  Lily 
and  her  Sunday  tea-table,  but  when  he  came  again  the 
next  Sunday,  and  again  the  next,  she  wondered  what  Lily 
was  thinking  about  his  defection  and  thought  how  relieved 
Mrs.  Gifford  would  be  if  she  could  know.  But  the  good 
lady  had  to  do  without  that  comfort.    .    .    . 

Spring  came  on  reluctantly,  with  many  advances  and 
retreats,  as  is  her  custom  in  that  unfriendly  climate. 
Isabel,  usually  impatient  of  the  season's  slow  advance, 
noticed  it  so  little  now  that  she  was  surprised  when. her 
garden  burst  into  bloom ;  surprised,  too,  at  her  own  peace 
of  mind.  She  still  felt  the  hurt  of  that  unhappy  ending 
of  her  New  York  visit,  still  longed  for  Dicky  and  had 
pangs  of  self-reproachful  distress  at  the  thought  of  Cassie, 


390  Isabel  Stirling 

but  she  resolutely  pushed  those  thoughts  into  the  back- 
ground. She  wrote  to  Cassie  from  time  to  time — that 
one  thing  she  would  not  give  up,  and  she  could  only  hope 
that  in  the  future  Cassie  would  not  be  sorry  to  have  kept 
up  their  intercourse,  although  at  present  she  responded 
seldom  and  briefly. 

In  other  ways  Isabel's  time  and  thoughts  were  fully 
and  agreeably  occupied.  From  the  time  she  got  up  in 
the  morning  until  she  unwillingly  went  to  bed  at  night 
she  found  plenty  to  do,  and  only  wished  that  the  days 
might  be  longer.  Her  garden  and  her  writing-table  com- 
peted for  her  attention  of  a  morning;  her  books  always 
awaited  her  pleasure ;  and  her  few  old  friends  of  the  town 
and  her  many  new  ones  of  the  campus  contrived  to  fill 
as  many  of  the  later  hours  of  the  day  as  she  would  give 
to  them.    As  for  Edmund,  he  was  now  an  inspiring  habit. 


LXXIII 

It  sometimes  seemed  to  Isabel  that  the  novel  was  too 
solidly  planted  on  its  feet.  It  marched,  yes — but  it  did 
not  soar.  And  sometimes  her  imagination  felt  its  wings 
and  longed  to  try  them  in  the  upper  air.  But  she  was 
working  under  a  master,  and  stimulating  though  Edmund 
was  to  her  intellect,  her  imagination  shyly  withdrew  itself 
from  his  expert  criticism.  There  were  moments  when 
her  spirit  demanded  solitude. 

It  was  at  such  a  moment  that  she  left  the  pile  of  manu- 
script in  its  drawer  and  seated  herself  at  her  typewriter 
with  fresh  paper  before  her.  She  told  herself  apologeti- 
cally that  it  was  only  a  short  story  she  wanted  to  write 
and  that  perhaps  she  would  do  her  real  work  better  if 
she  got  this  off  her  mind. 

All  the  morning  she  worked.  She  was  learning  at  last 
to  think  on  the  typewriter  and  found  that  it  far  surpassed 
the  pen.  The  little  story  shaped  itself  under  her  flying 
fingers  and,  from  some  subconscious  realm  of  her  mind, 
came  thoughts  and  words  and  phrases  which,  it  seemed, 
she  could  never  deliberately  have  devised.  When  Norah 
came  to  call  her  to  luncheon  she  looked  up,  dazed.  The 
room  seemed  quite  unfamiliar  to  her  and  Norah's  voice 
came  as  from  a  distance.  With  an  effort  she  brought 
herself  back,  looking  about  her  and  placing  the  familiar 
objects.  Then  she  rose  with  a  long  sigh.  Could  she 
recapture  the  mood? 

She  did  recapture  it,  helped  by  the  habit  of  voluntary 
concentration  acquired  in  the  weeks  of  hard  work.  It 
was  wonderful  to  her  to  find  that,  under  favoring  cir- 
cumstances, the  wings  of  imagination  could  be  made  to 
bear  her  up  at  her  bidding.  When,  at  the  end,  she  read 
over  what  she  had  written,  she  was  elated.    Faulty  it  was, 

391 


392  Isabel  Stirling 

careless  and  diffuse,  but  it  had  a  quality  which  had  been 
in  nothing  else  which  she  had  ever  written. 

And  now  to  correct  the  faults.  Not  for  this  would  she 
consult  Edmund.  Between  them,  they  would  clip  the 
wings  of  fancy  and  bring  the  poor  butterfly  fluttering 
down  to  earth.  She  corrected  and  condensed  and  rewrote, 
but  always  with  a  care  to  free  rather  than  to  fetter  the 
elfin  child  of  her  soul.  Then,  when  she  had  done  all  that 
she  could,  she  signed  her  name  and  sent  the  manuscript 
to  the  editor  of  the  magazine  for  which  she  had  the  most 
regard. 

Edmund  wondered  that  she  had  nothing  to  show  him 
and  reproached  her  with  laziness. 

"I'm  not  lazy,"  she  replied.  "But  Fve  wondered  some- 
times whether  I  had  it  in  me  to  do  anything  alone — 
whether  I  wasn't  depending  on  you  too  much."  She  was 
tempted  to  tell  him  about  the  little  story. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  looking  at  her  somewhat 
intently.  Then  he  smiled.  "But  why  not  depend  on  me  ?" 
he  said.    "I'm  always  here." 

"And  always  good  to  me — even  when  you  browbeat 
me.    But  after  all,  I  must  learn  to  do  my  own  work." 

"Must  you  ?  Really,  you  know,  my  help  doesn't  amount 
to  much,  except  to  keep  you  from  feeling  alone  on  your 
desert  island.    And  I  like  being  there  with  you." 

"Oh,  I  certainly  like  to  have  you.  Don't  sail  away. 
I'm  coming  back  to  you  with  a  big  bunch  of  manuscript 
some  evening — for  you  to  tear  to  pieces." 

"Why  not  for  me  to  approve?  Very  well,  since  you 
don't  dismiss  me  altogether,  perhaps  you'll  turn  about  and 
give  me  some  criticism  yourself.  I'd  like  to  bring  a  little 
thing  of  my  own  to  read  to  you.  Our  discussions  have 
started  me  off  and  I've  experimented  a  bit." 

She  leaned  forward,  her  eyes  shining.  "Oh,  if  you 
would  let  me  hear  it !    I'm  immensely  flattered." 

It  was  just  at  that  moment,  when  he  smiled  into  her 
eyes,  that  a  little  uneasiness  invaded  her  consciousness, 
though  so  slightly  that  she  was  able  to  put  it  aside  and 
forget  it. 


Isabel  Stirling  393 

He  brought  his  manuscript — a  short  essay — and  in 
response  to  her  enthusiastic  appreciation  of  the  clever 
deftness  of  his  touch,  told  her  that  it  was  she  who  had 
inspired  it. 

"In  the  matter  of  mental  stimulus,"  he  said,  "you  give 
far  more  than  you  get." 

There  was  that  in  his  voice  which  again  disturbed  her, 
and  this  time  she  was  not  able  to  forget  it. 

After  her  unhappy  experience  with  Lansing  Fordyce 
she  had  vowed  that  never  again  would  she  be  taken  by 
surprise  in  such  a  matter.  In  the  future  she  would  be 
wary  to  the  point  of  exaggeration.  Surely  now  it  seemed 
an  exaggeration  of  her  imagination,  of  her  self-conceit, 
to  think  of  Edmund  in  such  a  connection,  so  confident 
had  been  her  belief  in  his  brotherly  friendship  and  in  his 
immunity  from  feelings  of  another  sort.  That  he  had 
once  professed  to  love  her  had  not  seemed  to  count  in 
her  estimate  of  him;  but  it  counted  immeasurably  if  it 
were  indeed  possible  that  he  cared  for  her  now  in  that 
way.  It  was  unthinkable  that  she  should  be  a  second  time 
surprised  by  Edmund,  and  it  would  be  absolutely  un- 
pardonable. And  yet — if  it  were  all  her  imagination,  how 
fatuous  to  discourage  where  discouragement  was  need- 
less!   She  blushed  with  shame  at  the  thought. 

For  all  that  Isabel  had  never  been  foreseeing  in  such 
matters,  the  latter  years  had  not  left  her  quite  without 
experience  in  the  delicate  art  of  withdrawal  from  advances 
which  she  could  not  encourage.  But  what  a  thankless 
task  it  was  to  set  about  a  gradual  separation  from  a  friend 
to  whom  she  was  attached.  She  loved  Edmund's  visits, 
loved  all  their  intercourse.  Without  him,  she  felt  that 
she  would  be  horribly  lonely.  Yet  it  did  not  then  occur 
to  her  to  ask  herself  why,  under  those  circumstances,  she 
should  put  him  away  from  her. 

She  rose  the  next  morning,  planning  her  day  as  usual ; 
but  the  flavor  was  taken  out  of  all  her  pursuits.  She 
took  her  manuscript  out  of  its  drawer  only  to  put  it  back 
again.  She  busied  herself  more  successfully  in  manual 
labor  among  her  flowers,  but  she  worked  without  zest. 


394  Isabel  Stirling 

Fortunately  she  was  invited  out  that  evening  and  felt  that 
she  had  gained  a  breathing  space.  Edmund  was  at  the 
dinner  and  seemed  so  altogether  natural  that  she  told 
herself  she  had  been  imagining  things.  With  immense 
relief  she  gave  herself  up  to  enjoyment;  and  when  he 
came  the  next  evening  she  felt  that  everything  was  simple 
and  natural  again. 

But  again  there  were  disturbing  indications.  Now  that 
her  eyes  were  open  nothing  escaped  her.  There  could  be 
no  dalliance  with  the  situation.  She  must  address  herself 
to  the  difficult  task  of  setting  up  an  invisible,  impalpable 
barrier  between  herself  and  him. 

It  was  not  easy,  when  she  received  a  flatteringly  prompt 
acceptance  of  her  story,  to  keep  from  telling  him  about  it. 
She  was  immensely  elated  and  it  was  lonely  business, 
keeping  her  elation  to  herself.  Some  day  he  would  see 
it  published  with  her  name.  How  surprised  he  would  be ! 
And  how  she  was  always  going  to  miss  him ! 


LXXIV 

Isabel  saw  very  little  of  Lily  nowadays  and  would 
scarcely  have  thought  of  her,  but  for  an  uncanny  feeling 
which  grew  upon  her  that  Lily  was  watching  her.  She 
had  had  that  impression  ever  since  the  evening  when  Lily 
had  so  surprisingly  dropped  in  on  her;  surprisingly,  be- 
cause they  had  exchanged  no  evening  visits.  The  distance 
was  great  and  there  were,  as  yet,  no  street  cars. 

Edmund  was  with  her  at  the  time  (this  was  in  the  hey- 
day of  their  friendship),  and  it  happened  that,  for  once, 
they  were  not  in  the  study,  but  in  the  larger  room  in  front. 
It  was  a  mild  evening  late  in  May  and  still  quite  light. 
They  were  standing  at  an  open  window,  discussing  some 
matter  of , gardening.  In  that,  as  in  so  many  other  things, 
Edmund  was  an  adept. 

Lily  hated  walking,  but  she  had  for  some  time  been 
wondering  what  Isabel  did  with  herself  of  an  evening 
when  there  were  no  entertainments  going  on.  She  had 
descended  from  her  cottage  on  the  hill  on  the  chance  of 
finding  out.  Coming  from  the  other  direction,  she  did 
not  have  to  pass  their  window,  but  heard  their  voices 
before  she  came  up  the  verandah  steps,  and  came  lightly. 
Also,  she  did  not  ring  the  doorbell.  What  need  of  such 
formality  between  old  friends,  especially  as  the  door 
stood  open,  with  only  the  green  blind  doors  closed?  She 
pushed  the  blinds  apart  and  turned  toward  the  voices. 

"May  I  come  in?"  she  called,  and  entered  the  room 
without  waiting  for  an  answer.  "But  this  is  nice,"  she 
went  on,  shaking  hands  with  them  both.  "I  walked  all 
the  way  down,  thinking  you  might  be  having  a  lonely  eve- 
ning— I've  had  so  many  of  them  myself.  You  quite  got 
on  my  mind.    But  now  I'm  quite  happy  about  you — and 

395 


396  Isabel  Stirling 

I  must  only  stay  a  minute  and  get  home  before  dark.  You 
know  I  was  always  such  a  ridiculous  coward  about  going 
out  alone  after  dark." 

But  she  did  not  go.  Isabel  displayed  all  the  cordiality 
she  could  muster  and  Lily  settled  herself  gracefully  in  a 
chair  and  stayed  until  long  after  twilight  had  given  place 
to  darkness.  Isabel  lighted  a  lamp  and  still  she  stayed. 
It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  when  she  jumped  up  with  an 
air  of  suddenly  recollecting  herself. 

"How  could  you  let  me  stay  so  long?"  she  exclaimed. 
"I  simply  forgot  that  we  weren't  at  the  dear  old  post, 
where  one  ran  back  and  forth  at  any  hour — well,  yes — " 
as  Edmund  picked  up  his  hat  and  prepared  to  accompany 
her — "I'll  have  to  let  you  go  with  me,  though  it's  horrid 
to  take  you  away.  Won't  you  bring  Isabel  up  some  time 
and  spend  an  evening  with  me?" 

As  the  door  closed  after  them  Isabel  wondered  just 
what  had  brought  Lily  down  there  that  evening.  There 
was  no  reason  why  it  should  seem  strange  for  anyone  to 
find  Edmund  at  the  house  of  so  old  a  friend  as  she,  yet 
there  had  been  an  alert  watchfulness  in  Lily's  eyes  which 
vexed  her. 

Lily  did  not  come  again  for  a  long  time,  but  there  was 
another  meeting  between  the  three  just  at  the  time  when 
Isabel  had  definitely  made  up  her  mind  that  she  must 
break  off  her  intimate  friendship  with  Edmund.  It  was 
at  a  large  reception  during  Commencement  week.  Ed- 
mund had  joined  her  and  they  were  standing  a  little  apart 
from  the  crowd,  enjoying  the  breeze  which  came  wander- 
ing through  a  bay  window.  Lily  came  to  them  with  an 
air  of  drifting,  but  with  purpose  in  her  hard  blue  eyes. 
Young  Professor  Lang  was  with  her. 

"Wise  people,"  she  said,  "to  get  near  a  window.  It's 
suffocating  in  that  crowd."  She  folded  up  the  big  black 
fan  which  she  had  been  languidly  swaying.  "One  wouldn't 
have  thought  there  could  be  such  a  keen  little  breeze." 

Edmund  glanced  at  Isabel's  bare  shoulders  and  at  the 
little  curly  lock  at  the  back  of  her  neck  which,  loosened 
from  the  mass  of  her  hair,  was  fluttering  in  the  draft. 


Isabel  Stirling  397 

"Stand  here,"  he  said,  standing  aside  to  give  her  his  place. 
"Just  so  that  you  don't  have  your  back  to  the  breeze." 

She  laughed  at  his  carefulness,  but  moved  as  he 
directed,  yielding  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  his  autocratic 
way,  but  became  so  aware  of  Lily's  keen  and  malicious 
observation  that  she  blushed,  inopportunely  and  uncom- 
fortably. 

Lily  added  audacity  to  malice  because  she  foresaw  fail- 
ure to  her  plan  of  leaving  Mr.  Lang  with  Isabel  and  taking 
Edmund  away. 

"I  was  thinking  of  our  parties  when  we  were  in  our 
teens,  Isabel  and  I,"  she  said,  turning  to  him.  "I  remem- 
ber you  were  a  sort  of  missionary  who  went  about  show- 
ing people  how  they  ought  to  behave.  You  separated  all 
the  couples  and  paired  them  off  differently.  Do  you  still 
do  that?" 

"How  irritating  I  must  have  been.  Do  let  me  forget 
my  disagreeableness.  No,  I  shouldn't  dream  now  of  in- 
terfering with  you  in  any  of  your  little  affairs." 

Her  head  went  up.  "Oh,  you  didn't  interfere  very 
appreciably  then,"  she  said.  "Our  customs  remained 
much  the  same,  stupid  as  they  were.". 

Edmund  thought  the  retort  good,  especially  for  Lily, 
who  ordinarily  was  nothing  if  not  amiable  toward  him. 
He  liked  her  very  well  at  that  moment  and  would  have 
liked  her  better  if  she  had  then  taken  herself  off.  Instead 
of  that,  it  was  Isabel  who,  by  some  skilful  management, 
presently  walked  away  with  Mr.  Lang,  leaving  Lily  sur- 
prised at  the  success  of  her  scheme. 

It  was  not  a  happy  evening  for  Isabel,  who  found  the 
business  of  turning  cool  to  Edmund  entirely  hateful. 
When  she  took  her  leave  early  she  found  that  he  intended 
to  drive  home  with  her  and  that  she  could  not  prevent  him. 
She  fenced  with  him  delicately  during  the  drive  and,  when 
he  had  left  her  at  her  door  and  she  had  locked  it  and  put 
out  the  hall  light  and  gone  to  her  room,  she  told  herself 
that  she  must  do  something  more  decided.  Yet,  although 
she  stayed  awake  for  hours,  she  could  not  devise  any  plan 
but  that  of  flight.    She  could  accept  those  invitations  from 


\ 

398  Isabel  Stirling 

her  father  and  Margaret  which  she  had  intended  to  ac- 
cept later.  To  be  sure,  she  didn't  want  to  go  away,  but 
what  of  that  ? 

And  yet  it  was  still  so  intangible.  Edmund  implied  a 
great  deal,  but  so  elusively  that  she  needn't  notice  it  if 
she  did  not  choose.    But  she  must  choose. 

Oh,  why  must  such  things  happen?  She  had  been 
more  contented,  really  happier  than  she  had  ever  expected 
to  be  again.  She  liked  these  people  whom  she  was  learn- 
ing to  know,  liked  her  position  among  them,  liked  her 
house  and  garden  and  good  old  Norah  and  Michael.  More 
than  all,  she  liked  Edmund  himself  and  their  happy  com- 
radeship. Oh,  why  couldn't  he  be  satisfied  with  the 
friendship  which  she  found  so  sufficing? 

Nor  did  morning  bring  comfort.  What  it  brought  was 
a  visit  from  Lily.  Isabel  greeted  her  cordially,  glad  of 
anything  that  promised  distraction  from  her  perplexities. 

"I  came  early  to  have  a  nice  long  visit,"  said  Lily. 
"We  don't  have  them  as  often  as  we  used  to  in  the  dear 
old  days."  She  had  brought  her  work-bag  and  took  out  a 
piece  of  her  fine  sewing.  "I  don't  suppose  you  sew  any 
more  than  you  used  to,"  she  said.  "Ah,  well,  you  don't 
have  to." 

"You  do  everything  like  that  so  beautifully,"  said 
Isabel,  with  ungrudging  admiration. 

"It's  just  as  it  always  used  to  be  and  probably  will  be 
all  my  life.  I  have  to  make  my  pretty  things  or  do 
without  them.  I  thought,  for  the  summer,  I'd  wear  these 
little  mull  fichus,  but  they  have  to  be  hemstitched." 

She  sewed  for  a  while  and  talked  of  trifles,  while  Isabel 
leaned  back  lazily  in  a  big  chair,  responding  as  far  as 
necessary  and  reflecting  that  a  conversation  with  Lily 
never  did  make  much  demand  on  one's  intellect. 

"I  suppose  that  to  you  those  old  days  when  I  used  to 
bring  my  work  over  and  sit  with  you  must  seem  very  far 
off  and  dim — nozv/'  said  Lily. 

"I  don't  see  why  'now'  especially,"  said  Isabel.  She 
wished  that  Lily  would  not  constantly  go  back  to  the 
memories  which  she  could  not  bear  to  share  with  her. 


Isabel  Stirling  399 

"Well,  because  it  seems  to  me  that  life  is  opening 
freshly  to  you  again."  Lily  spoke  with  a  sentimental 
intonation,  but  cast  a  keen  side-glance  as  she  did  so. 

"Of  course  every  time  one  comes  home  and  starts  again 
you  might  call  it  a  fresh  beginning,  but  it  doesn't  mean  as 
much  as  all  that." 

"Oh,  you  can't  possibly  be  as  unconscious  as  you  seem. 
And  really,  Isabel,  you  might  confide  in  me — old  friends 
as  we  are.    I'd  like  to  be  the  first  to  congratulate  you." 

Isabel  suddenly  sat  up  straight.  "I  don't  in  the  least 
understand  you,"  she  said,  but  understanding  had  come 
to  her  and  her  voice  was  frigid. 

Lily  had  laid  down  her  work.  "Of  course  you  do 
understand,"  she  said.  "And  I  do  think,  Isabel,  you 
might  tell  me  about  it.  When  are  you  going  to  be 
married?" 

Isabel's  face  flamed.    "How  dare  you  ?"  she  exclaimed. 

"You  act  as  if  I  had  insulted  you.     How  ridiculous !" 

"I  feel  as  if  you  had." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  not  going  to  marry 
Edmund  GifTord?" 

"You  have  no  right  to  ask  such  a  question  and  I  am 
not  obliged  to  answer  you,  but  to  make  things  perfectly 
plain  I  will  tell  you  that  there  has  never  been  such  a 
thought  between  us." 

"Then  I  must  say — "  began  Lily.  She  picked  with 
her  needle  at  the  work  in  her  lap.  "He's  got  the  thought, 
all  right,"  she  said.  "And  if  you  haven't,  then  I  think 
you've  been  behaving  horridly." 

"I  don't  think  you  need  disturb  yourself  about  Ed- 
mund," said  Isabel  coldly. 

"I'm  not  troubling  myself  about  Edmund."  The  color 
rose  at  last  in  Lily's  cheeks.  "I'm  troubling  about  myself. 
/  love  Edmund,  though  I'd  never  have  let  you  suspect  it  if 
you  had  been  going  to  marry  him.  He  was  beginning  to 
care  for  me — it  wouldn't  have  been  long  before  I  should 
have  been  the  one  to  announce  a  marriage.  And  then  you 
came.  You  came  to  my  house — uhinvited — and  took  him 
away  before  my  eyes.    And  now  you  say  you  don't  want 


400  Isabel  Stirling 

him  yourself.  I  don't  believe  you.  I  believe  you  do  want 
him  and  have  led  me  on  to  tell  you " 

"Lily,  don't  P 

"You  act,"  said  Lily,  "as  if  one  had  no  right  to  marry 
again — but  you'll  do  it,  when  you  get  ready.  One  doesn't 
bury  oneself  forever.    We're  both  women,  after  all." 

She  stopped  and  waited  until  she  could  recover  her 
usual  manner.  "Dear  Isabel,"  she  said,  "do  forgive  me. 
And  try  to  be  a  friend  to  me.  It  isn't,  after  all,  quite 
impossible  that  Edmund  should  get  back  to  where  he  was 
before  you  came.  Won't  you  let  him  alone — since  you 
really  don't  want  him?" 

Isabel  stared  at  her,  unable  to  frame  a  reply. 

"Can't  you  see,"  said  Lily,  struggling  with  tears,  "how 
difficult  it  is  for  me  to  open  my  heart  to  you  in  this  way?" 

"Difficult!"  said  Isabel.     "It  ought  to  be  impossible." 

Lily  turned  white  to  her  lips.  "I  don't  think,"  she  said 
slowly,  "that  I  can  ever  forgive  you  for  that." 

Her  face  was  quite  hard  and  expressionless  now.  At 
that  moment  she  was  a  plain  woman  who  looked  her  full 
age.  She  folded  up  her  work,  put  it  carefully  into  her 
bag  and  got  up.  Isabel  watched  her  in  silence,  nor  did 
she  speak  when  Lily,  pausing  an  instant  at  the  door,  went 
out  of  the  room.    There  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  say. 


LXXV 

Isabel  felt  that  she  positively  could  not  see  Edmund  that 
evening,  for  every  reason.  But  he  came  earlier  than 
usual,  before  she  had  time  to  carry  out  her  intention  of 
going  out  after  dinner.  Norah  let  him  in,  of  course.  It 
would  never  have  done  to  depend  on  Norah  to  help  her 
evade  him. 

As  it  happened,  Edmund  was  at  his  best  that  night  and 
so  entirely  undisturbing  to  her  composure  that  she  was 
fain  to  think  that  she  had  greatly  exaggerated  the  situa- 
tion. From  moment  to  moment,  she  felt  the  nervous 
tension  of  the  past  twenty-four  hours  relaxing.  She  was 
able  to  put  Lily  and  her  horrid  impertinence  out  of  her 
mind  as  unworthy  of  another  thought. 

Edmund  had  been  blind  neither  to  her  expression  of 
worry  and  preoccupation  during  the  early  part  of  the 
evening,  nor  to  the  way  in  which  that  expression  had 
yielded  to  her  usual  cheerfulness ;  the  cheerfulness  which 
he  liked  to  think  he  had  helped  to  restore  to  her.  It  was 
no  wonder  that  he  felt  encouraged ;  no  wonder  that,  after 
having  shown  consummate  tact  in  his  management  of 
the  situation,  he  should,  just  at  the  end,  have  spoiled  his 
effect  by  a  word,  a  tone,  a  glance,  by  the  merest  accen- 
tuation of  his  hand-clasp  in  leave-taking.  But  had  he 
spoiled  it? 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  him  Isabel  stood  still 
for  a  moment,  then  walked  slowly  to  the  writing  table, 
and  sat  down  in  the  chair  in  front  of  it.  She  put  her 
elbows  on  the  table  and  rested  her  head  on  her  hands.  She 
felt  almost  dizzy,  as  if  the  ground  had  been  cut  away  from 
under  her  feet.  For  she  had  felt,  within  herself,  the  most 
sudden,  surprising,  disturbing  impulse  of  response  to 
Edmund's  calL    She  would  almost  have  liked  to  cling  to 

401 


402  Isabel  Stirling 

his  hand  when  he  held  hers  for  that  unnecessary  instant, 
although,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  withdrawn  her 
fingers  quickly.  She  was  ashamed  and  overwhelmed  and 
utterly  astonished. 

And  then,  for  the  first  time,  the  thought  invaded  her 
mind — what  if  she  should  yield,  instead  of  withdrawing? 
She  raised  her  head  and,  sitting  straight  up  in  her  chair, 
faced  the  idea  and  considered  it. 

Certainly,  she  had  an  affection  for  Edmund.  As  to 
that,  she  could  hardly  bear  the  idea  of  giving  him  up — as 
she  would  have  to  do.  There  could  be  no  halfway  meas- 
ure of  friendship  between  them  any  more.  Probably  she 
had  as  much  affection  for  him  as  he  would  ever  demand. 
Of  course  not  the  love  she  gave  to  Dick.  That  was  dif- 
ferent. But  life  with  Edmund  would  be  charming.  He 
was  so  companionable,  so  altogether  pleasant,  and  so 
stimulating.  And  dear  Mrs.  Gifford  would  be  so  pleased. 
She  could  be  a  real  daughter  to  Mrs.  Gifford;  not  like 
Jessie,  of  course,  but  a  daughter  near  at  hand  and  occu- 
pied in  making  the  beloved  son  happy,  even  if  she  couldn't 
give  him  the  love  that  was  Dick's. 

As  for  Dick,  would  she  not  go  to  him  in  that  other 
world,  which  could  not  be  a  material  world?  She  never 
doubted  the  existence  of  that  other  world,  or  of  Dick 
and  Uncle  Brenton  living  in  it.  But  Dick — since  he  was 
through  with  material  things,  would  he  care  for  that  side 
of  it,  if  she  could  be  happy  and  less  lonely  while  she  was 
waiting  ? 

Will  he  care — if  I  keep  my  soul  for  him? 

Perhaps  he  wouldn't.  Perhaps  they  didn't  care  over 
there  for  the  things  of  this  material  world.  But  she 
herself  cared  dreadfully.  And  to  keep  her  soul  for  one 
man  while  giving  her  body  to  another  would  be  too  re- 
volting. No,  she  must  give  herself  entirely  or  not  at  all. 
Edmund  must  be  all  in  all  to  her,  just  as  Dick  had  been. 

She  got  up,  walked  across  the  room  and  back,  then  sat 
down  again  with  flaming  cheeks.  Yes,  there  might  be 
children.  Her  life,  like  other  women's,  might  have 
significance.    .    .   . 


Isabel  Stirling  403 

Dicky's  blue  eyes  seemed  to  look  into  hers.  There  had 
been  no  child  for  Dick. 

Then  she  tried  to  think  sanely  and  unselfishly  about 
Edmund.  She  could  make  him  happy.  Ought  she  to 
make  him  unhappy?  Was  she  not  fantastic  and  selfish? 
Almost  the  whole  world  married  again  and  she  hadn't 
the  slightest  objection  to  it — for  them.  She  had  even 
been  glad  sometimes  to  see  a  life  renewed  and  made  happy 
again — had  said  what  a  good  thing  it  was.  Why  should 
it  seem  so  different  in  her  own  case  ?  Had  she  any  right 
to  sacrifice  Edmund,  who  had  been  so  unceasingly  good 
to  her?  She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  trying  to  make 
herself  see  things  reasonably.  Yet  when  she  raised  her 
head  one  thought  stood  out  in  her  mind:  /  have  given 
myself  once.     To  do  it  again — no,  that  is  not  for  me. 

Fantastic  perhaps — but  she  couldn't  argue  it  away,  this 
feeling  that  in  giving  herself  twice  she  would  be  sacri- 
ficing her  spiritual  integrity.  Isn't  it — she  asked  herself 
— the  way  we  deal  with  the  things  of  the  flesh  that  fits 
or  unfits  us  for  the  things  of  the  spirit? 

In  the  end,  what  could  she  hold  to,  if  not  to  her  own 
standards — the  standards  that  she  had  vowed  not  to 
forsake?  She  seemed  again  to  hear  Miss  Pryor's  voice 
as  she  said:    "Hold  fast  to  the  things  of  the  spirit." 


LXXVI 

For  a  week  Isabel  avoided  Edmund  as  far  as  possible; 
denying  herself  to  him  once  or  twice  and,  when  obliged 
to  see  him,  retreating  behind  a  shadowy  wall  of  aloofness. 
He  bore  it  well;  looking  at  her  out  of  eyes  that  were 
affectionately  questioning  and,  at  first,  even  somewhat 
quizzical,  but  gradually  becoming  graver  in  his  regard. 

She  found  her  task  difficult  until  one  day  a  great  and 
joyful  surprise  came  to  her  and  made  her  forget  every- 
thing else.  She  received  a  telegram  from  Cassie,  asking 
if  she  could  put  her  up  for  a  night. 

Without  a  word  having  been  said,  Isabel  had  under- 
stood quite  well  that  the  old  house  would  not  be  opened 
this  summer.  There  was  to  be  no  chance  for  her  to  see 
Dicky,  and  she  had  no  complaint  to  make.  Probably 
Cassie  was  now  coming  to  get  the  things  which  she  would 
want  elsewhere.  Was  it  a  sign  of  friendship  or  only  a 
regard  for  appearances  which  caused  her  to  come  to  her 
sister-in-law  instead  of  going  to  a  hotel?  With  a  remem- 
brance of  Cassie's  transparent  honesty,  she  felt  that  if 
there  had  been  no  friendliness  there  would  have  been  no 
visit  to  Ptolemy.  Cassie  would  have  managed  to  do 
without  whatever  she  might  want  rather  than  come  at  all. 
With  a  glow  at  her  heart  she  answered  the  telegram. 

Cassie  arrived  late  the  next  day.  She  greeted  Isabel 
affectionately,  but  looked  pale  and  careworn.  During 
dinner  she  said  nothing  about  the  reason  for  her  coming 
and  Isabel  had  to  treat  the  matter  casually. 

"Will  you  sit  on  the  verandah?"  she  asked,  as  they 
came  out  of  the  dining-room. 

"Let's  go  where  we  shall  not  be  interrupted,"  replied 
Cassie.    "I  have  something  to  say." 

Seated  in  the  study,  she  hesitated  for  a  moment  and 
turned  still  paler.  Then  with  an  effort,  she  said:  "Lansing 

404 


Isabel  Stirling  405 

has  been  very  ill — is  still  very  ill.  He  is  always  over- 
worked— and  then  an  attack  of  grippe  came.  His  doctors 
say — "  her  voice  grew  husky  and  she  paused  to  regain 
control  of  it.  "His  doctors  say  that  his  one  chance  is  to 
give  everything  up  and  go  away.  A  long  ocean  voyage — 
a  sort  of  unlimited  voyage,  stopping  only  at  intervals  in 
certain  climates,  is  what  they  recommend.  It's  very  hard 
for  him." 

"It's  dreadful!"  breathed  Isabel. 

"We  can  arrange,"  Cassie  went  on.  "Things  have 
been  made  easy  for  us — as  easy  as  they  could  be — I  mean 
financially.  We  let  the  house  just  as  it  stands.  There 
needn't  be  any  delay  about  our  starting.  Only — the 
children.  The  things  we  do  won't  do  for  them.  I  am 
advised — authoritatively — to  leave  them  behind."  Again 
her  voice  failed  and  again  she  controlled  it.  "Will  you 
take  them?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

To  Isabel,  listening  in  sympathetic  anguish,  the  words 
seemed  unbelievable.  Could  she  have  heard  aright  ?  "Oh, 
Cassie !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  breaking  voice,  "how  good 
you  are  to  me !" 

In  truth,  Cassie  was  great-hearted,  but  too,  her  need 
was  great.  When  she  had  thought  to  take  the  children 
to  Aunt  Mary,  Lansing  had  irritably  and  emphatically 
refused  to  permit  them  to  be  subject  to  the  wanderings 
of  a  Methodist  parson,  who  was  due  to  change  his  abode 
within  the  year.  And  he  wanted  them  in  a  different 
atmosphere  anyway,  he  said.  Cassie  could  not  oppose 
him.  For  his  sake  and  the  children's  she  buried  whatever 
remained  in  her  heart  of  bitterness  toward  Isabel.  It  was 
the  easier  since  Lansing  had  turned  to  her  with  utter 
faith  and  dependence;  with  an  affection,  too,  which 
seemed  to  show  that  his  recent  infatuation  had  been 
blotted  from  his  consciousness. 

She  smiled  wistfully  at  Isabel's  outburst.  "I  know 
you  love  Dicky  best,"  she  said,  "but  Katrina " 

"I'll  love  them  both  best!"  cried  Isabel,  the  tears 
streaming  down  her  cheeks.  "Katrina  shall  be  no  less 
dear  than  Dicky — and  oh,  to  think  that  you  will  trust 


4Q6  Isabel  Stirling 

me  with  them!  I'll  try  to  deserve  it — and  to  do  all  you 
would  want " 

Once  more  Cassie  was  her  sister,  dearer  than  ever 
before.  Looking  at  her  in  her  trouble,  Isabel  was  ashamed 
of  the  ecstacy  with  which  she  thought  of  the  children's 
coming. 

Late  into  the  night  they  talked  and  planned.  "Ill  leave 
you  the  key  of  the  house  here,"  said  Cassie.  "You'll  get 
what  they  need — their  little  beds — "  But  at  that  she  broke 
down  utterly  and  sobbed  in  Isabel's  arms. 

Later  she  said :  "Of  course  we  shall  pay  their  expenses. 
We've  arranged  for  that." 

"No,  no !"  exclaimed  Isabel.  "Cassie  dear,  you'll  have 
so  much  use  for  your  money.  Do,  do  let  me  have  them 
as  if  they  were  my  own.    I  can  do  it,  indeed  I  can." 

She  thought  with  joy  of  the  cheque  which  she  had  that 
day  received  for  her  story.  What  happiness  to  work  for 
the  children,  to  have  them  as  if  they  were  her  own.  What 
happiness  if  she  should  have  to  make  sacrifices  for  them ! 
She  entreated,  but  could  not  shake  Cassie's  resolution  to 
deposit  money  in  the  bank  for  their  use. 

"Very  well,"  she  said  at  last,  but  resolved  not  to  touch 
a  cent  of  it.  Cassie  might  need  that  money  yet ;  and  for 
herself,  how  she  would  work  now  that  she  had  an  object ! 
What  wouldn't  she  achieve! 

They  were  to  be  brought  to  her  within  the  week.  "I 
must  keep  them  as  long  as  I  can,"  said  Cassie,  and  Isabel's 
heart  was  melted  with  pity  for  her.  Not  while  the  mother 
was  there  could  she  let  herself  indulge  in  happy  plans  for 
them.  Even  after  she  had  gone  to  bed  she  would  not  let 
herself  arrange  their  rooms  and  picture  them  living  there. 

But  in  the  morning,  when  she  came  back  from  seeing 
Cassie  off  on  the  train,  she  took  Michael  and  went  to 
the  old  house  to  get  the  things  which  they  would  need. 
How  everything  in  that  house  reminded  her  of  Dick  and 
of  his  father!  She  longed  to  linger  and  lose  herself  in 
those  memories,  but  to-day's  demands  pressed.  She 
locked  the  door  and  turned  to  the  future.  That  future, 
too,  belonged  to  Dick 


Isabel  Stirling  407 

She  went  home  to  plan  and  arrange  with  Norah. 
"They'll  make  you  more  work,"  she  said. 

"ill  not  be  mindin'  the  work,"  said  Norah  loyally. 

"And  boys  are  more  lively  than  girls,"  said  Isabel,  with 
pride  in  Dicky's  enterprise. 

"Me  own  baby  that  died  was  a  b'y,"  said  Norah. 

"And  mine,"  said  Isabel  softly;  adding,  "The  little  girl 
is  a  beauty.    You'll  love  her  as  much  as  the  boy." 

"We  will  that,"  said  Norah,  with  understanding.  "An' 
how  long  will  it  be  ye'U  be  havin'  them?" 

"Oh,  a  year  or  two.  Until  their  father  gets  well  and 
can  come  home." 

She  went  about  soberly  for  a  little  time.  Cassie's  great 
joy  would  be  her  own  bereavement.  But  after  all,  why 
think  about  that  now?  Sufficient  unto  the  day  the  good 
as  well  as  the  evil. 

How  much  she  must  learn  about  the  care  of  children. 
They  would  have  their  nurse,  but  she  must  know  for 
herself.  Above  all,  how  good  she  must  be!  She  went 
about  her  work  of  preparation,  saying  to  herself:  "I  must 
be  good.    If  only  I  can  be  good  enough !" 

How  had  she  dared  to  think  that  a  woman's  life  could 
have  no  significance  if  she  had  not  children  of  her  own? 
She  thought  of  Miss  Pryor  and  of  her  influence  over 
generations  of  girls — not  that  she  could  ever  be  like  Miss 
Pryor.  When  the  time  should  come  to  give  the  children 
back  to  their  mother  she  would  be  glad  with  Cassie — and 
other  ways  would  open.  For  the  present,  let  her  take  the 
gift  of  the  gods  and  be  thankful. 

When  Edmund  came  that  evening  she  could  hardly 
remember  that  she  was  trying  to  avoid  him.  However, 
the  news  with  which  she  met  him  put  him  off,  for  the 
moment,  as  effectually  as  any  avoidance  could  have  done. 
She  was  so  absorbed  in  her  happiness,  so  eager  for  his 
sympathy,  that  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  give  it  to 
her  with  as  much  show  of  whole-heart edness  as  he  could 
command.  But  he  felt  as  if  he  had  been  put  outside  of 
her  life.  He  would  not  submit  to  it  without  an  effort  to 
regain  his  footing. 


408  Isabel  Stirling 

"How  about  the  writing  ?"  he  asked  after  a  while. 
"Isn't  the  book  to  be  finished  ?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  shall  write,"  she  replied.  "Indeed, 
I  must  write.  While  I  have  the  children  I  want  them  to 
be  wholly  mine.  I  don't  want  to  spend  Cassie's  money — 
and  so  I  must  write  and  earn  some  for  them." 

"Then  it's  to  be  commercial — the  writing?" 

"Well,  yes,  if  you  put  it  that  way.  But  need  it  be  the 
worse  for  that?  Don't  you  get  paid  for  your  essays? 
Perhaps  you  think  I'm  vain  to  imagine  that  I  could  make 
money,  but " 

She  told  him  about  the  story.  He  listened,  but  said 
little. 

"You  don't  mind?"  she  asked,  feeling  remorseful  and 
cast  down. 

"You  were  quite  right,"  he  said,  recovering  himself. 
"You  have  the  gift  of  imagination — and  sometimes  a 
critic  with  his  carping  is  likely  to  put  out  that  divine  fire." 

"But  you've  helped  me  so  much.  How  could  I  ever 
have  done  anything  without  you?" 

"I  wish  to  heaven  you  did  need  me — as  I  need  you !" 

Too  late  she  remembered.  A  look  of  dismay  crossed 
her  face. 

He  smiled  ruefully.  "Yes,  you  forgot.  You've  tried 
conscientiously  to  keep  me  from  asking  you  to  marry  me. 
Is  it  really  quite  impossible?" 

She  paled,  but  met  his  eyes  squarely.  "Quite  impossi- 
ble," she  said.    "I'm  so  sorry — I  oughtn't " 

"You've  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with.  It's  not 
your  fault  that  I  insisted  on  having  it  out."  He  hesitated, 
then  went  on.  "People  are  apt  to  think  I  don't  take  things 
seriously,  but  you  don't  know  how  seriously  I  do  take  it, 
or  how  much  I  love  you.    You're  really  quite  sure?" 

"Absolutely."  She  hesitated  in  her  turn.  "As  sure," 
she  said  at  last,  "as  if  the  world  did  not  call  me  free." 

For  a  while  after  he  had  left  her  she  still  sat,  filled  with 
sorrow  and  regret,  in  the  little  room  which  had  seen  so 
many  happy  hours  of  comradeship.  At  last  she  got  up 


Isabel  Stirling  409 

and  walked  about,  closing  the  windows  and  extinguishing 
the  lights.  Then  she  went  into  the  hall  and  put  out  the 
hanging  lamp.  By  the  faint  light  which  Came  down  from 
the  upper  hall  she  found  her  way  to  the  door  opening  on 
the  verandah  and  went  out. 

Around  her  was  darkness.  Masses  of  trees  and  shrub- 
bery half  concealed  the  neighboring  houses,  in  which  only 
an  occasional  light  still  twinkled.  From  the  garden  came 
the  fragrance  of  roses;  overhead  stretched  the  immensity 
of  the  starlit  sky.  Gazing  upward,  Isabel  felt  her  spirit 
once  more  uplifted.  She  was  sorry,  deeply  sorry  for 
Edmund ;  sorry  for  Cassie  and  for  Cassie's  husband.  But 
for  herself  she  was  glad ;  glad  of  the  life  which  lay  before 
her,  of  the  work  which  she  was  to  do,  of  the  trust  which 
had  been  so  wonderfully  confided  to  her.  She  felt  in 
herself  a  spring  of  joyful  energy,  an  ability  to  meet  what- 
ever life  might  yet  bring  to  her.  She  consecrated  herself 
to  the  future  and  to  the  past.  Never  had  she  felt  nearer 
to  her  husband  than  at  that  moment.  Never  before  had 
she  had  a  living  consciousness  of  a  great  pervading 
beneficent  power.    Was  this  what  they  called  God  ? 

The  night-wind  blew  fresh  and  sweet.  She  stood 
motionless  for  a  long  time.  Then  she  turned  and  went 
into  the  house  and  softly  closed  the  door. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 


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5  m\ 
E  8  1922 

si  mt 

MM,  29 1921 


20m-ll,'20 


YB  39787 


445808 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

4 


